
ClassEEin^ 



Book_. 



. Tl ^, 



o 



GcipglitTJ"^ 



COPKUGIW DEPOSn*. 






FIFTY 



PERFECT POEMS. 



SELECTED AND EDITED BY 



SEJ/E( 

CHARLES A. DANA and ROSSITER JOHNSON. 



3l 



WITH SEVENTY ILLUSTRATIONS. 



IwV 2/1882) 

No....5^.6./.4"7 K^ ' 



NEW YORK: 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

I, 3, AND 5 BOND STREET. 
188.^,. 



W "S % V 



•V 






COPYRIGHT BY 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 
1882. 



PREFACE. 



The title of this volume may perhaps appear a little 
audacious to those who recall Pope's familiar dictum as to 
the impossibihty of a faultless piece. In the absolute sense 
of the term, there is, of course, no perfect poem, because 
there is no perfect thing of any kind. But, as every art 
has its Hmitations, in whatsoever work the imperfections are 
caused by these limitations alone, the artist may fairly be 
said to have succeeded to perfection. On this principle 
the poems here collected have been chosen. 

Poetry has manifold applications : the telling of a story, 
the picturing of a landscape, the analysis of a motive, the 
awakening of a national sentiment, the utterance of a pas- 
sion, the suggestion of a dream ; and, in the hands of a master, 
verse may lend its charm to almost any subject, however 
homely. The endeavor has been made to include in this 
group of poems a wide variety in kind, only demanding that 
each shall be perfect after its kind, and having a reasonable 
regard for the possibilities of illustration. It was believed 
that such a collection, enriched by the pencils of the best 
artists, would have a peculiar and permanent value for the 
lovers of poetry. 

In no instance have the editors subordinated their own 
critical judgment to a popular verdict, though in many, as 
was to be expected, the two most perfectly agree. A glance 
over the minor poems of our language showed some singular 



iv PREFACE. 

discrepancies, as well as coincidences, between the rule here 
appKed and the test of popularity. Burns's oft-quoted 
" Highland Mary" contains not a single good rhyme in all 
its thirty -two lines ; and Byron was not able to get through 
the twenty-four lines of the " Maid of Athens " without a 
gross grammatical error woven into the very structure of 
the verse. In these cases the natural beauty of the sentiment 
and fitness of expression have easily overborne the technical 
imperfections. Every reader is aware that Gray's " Elegy," 
at its twenty-fourth stanza, suddenly drops to the level of me- 
diocrity ; but, notwithstanding this blemish, it still remains, 
after a century and a quarter, immeasurably the finest com- 
position of its kind in the English tongue. If an occasional 
question should arise as to the justness of this or that selec- 
tion or omission, its answer will be readily suggested by the 
principle laid down and the instances here cited. 

Our acknowledgments are due to Messrs. Houghton, 
Mifflin, and Co. for permission kindly given to use copy- 
righted pieces, from distinguished American poets, published 
by that firm. 



LIST OF POEMS. 







PAGE 


Prothalamion 


Edmund Spenser 


I 


Sonnets 


William Shakespeare 


8 


Death's Final Conquest 


James Shirley 


lO 


Lycidas 


John Milton 


II 


They are all Gone 


Henry Vaughan 


19 


The Deserted Village 


Oliver Goldsmith 


21 


Elegy written in a Country 




Churchyard 


Thomas Gray 


37 



On a Picture of Peel Castle in 

A Storm 
She was a Phantom of Delight 

KiLMENY 

lochinvar 

Hymn Before Sunrise, in the Vale 
OF Chamouni 

To Night 

Lochiel's Warning 

Hallowed Ground 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 

Song of the Greek Poet 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 

To A Skylark 

Lines to an Indian Air 

The Cavern of the Three Tells 

The Battle-Field 



William Wordsworth 


43 


William Wordsworth 


46 


James Hogg 


48 


Sir Walter Scott 


60 


Samuel Taylor Coleridge 


63 


Joseph Blanco White 


e-i 


Thomas Campbell 


68 


Thomas Campbell 


72 


Lord Byron 


76 


Lord Byron 


78 


Charles Wolfe 


82 


Percy Bysshe Shelley 


84 


Percy Bysshe Shelley 


89 


Felicia Hemans 


90 


William Cullen Bryant 


93 



VI 



LIST OF POEMS. 



Marco Bozzaris 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 

Jeanie Morrison 

The Bridge of Sighs 

Naseby 

Each and All 

The Arsenal at Springfield 

Our River 

The Haunted Palace 

The Raven 

The Lotos-Eaters 

Ulysses 

Break, Break, Break 

Mother and Poet 

The Last Leaf 

How they Brought the Good 
News from Ghent to Aix 

Love Among the Ruins 

The Forging of the Anchor 

Ode to Happiness 

Drifting 

Tommy's Dead 

A Nice Correspondent 

Summer 

The High Tide on the Coast of 
Lincolnshire (1571) 

He Who Died at Azim 

Aux Italiens 

Doris 

The Old Politician 



Fitz-Grcefie Halleck 


96 


John Keats 


lOI 


William Motherwell 


104 


Thoinas Hood 


108 


Thomas Babington Macaulay 


113 


Ralph Waldo Emerson 


117 


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 


119 


John Greenleaf Whittier 


122 


Edgar Allan Poe 


125 


Edgar Allan Poe 


127 


Alfred Tennyson 


134 


Alfred Tennyson 


142 


Alfred Tennyson 


145 


Elizabeth Barrett Browning 


146 


Oliver Wendell Holmes 


150 


Robert Browning 


152 


Robert Brownifig 


155 


Samuel Ferguson 


159 


James Russell Lowell 


164 


Thomas Buchanan Read 


169 


Sydney Dobell 


173 


Frederick Locker 


177 


John Townsend Trowbridge 


180 


Jean Ingelow 


183 


Edwin Arnold 


190 


Robert Bulwer, Lord Lytton 


193 


Arthur Joseph Munby 


198 


Robert Buchanan 


200 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



SUBJECT 

Prothalamion. 

And all the meads adorn' d with dainty gems. 

Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands 
bound. 

They two, forth pacing to the river's side, 
Received those tivo fair bi-ides. 

Lycidas. 

Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. 
Where were ye. Nymphs, . . . 
Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slotv. 
O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth ! 

They are all gone. 
Tail-piece. 

The Deserted Village. 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest. 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 
Low lies that house where nuf-brozvn draughts. 
Doivnward they move, a melancholy band. 
Tail-piece. 



Harry Fenn. i 

Frank Millet. 4 

Frank Millet. 7 

Walter Satterlee. 12 

Walter Satterlee. 13 

Walter Satterlee. 15 

Walter Satterlee. 18 

J. D. Woodward. 20 



Harry Fenn. 


21 


Harry Fenn. 


23 


Harry Fenn. 


26 


Harry Fenn. 


29 


FIarry Fenn. 


35 


Harry Fenn. 


36 



Vlll 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Walter Satterlee. 46 



SUBJECT ARTIST 

Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard. 

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea. Harry Fenn. 

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree' s shade. Harry Fenn. 

On a Picture of Peel Castle in a Storm. 

. . . . Thou rugged pile I J. D. Woodward. 

She was a Phantom of Delight. 

A dancing shape, an image gay. 

Kilmeny. 

In that green wene Kilmejty lay. 

They bore Jier away, she wist not how. 

The soft desire of maiden s een. 

In that 7nild face could never be seen. 

Lochinvar. 

'^ Now tread we a measure I " said young Lochin- 



37 
42 



43 



Frank Millet. 


50 


Frank Millet. 


53 


Frank Millet. 


53 



var. J. E. Kelly. 

" They II have fleet steeds that follow" quoth young 

Lochinvar. J. E. Kelly. 

Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouni. 



Visited all night by troops of stars. 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost t 

To Night. 

Mysterious Night .'.... 



J. D. Woodward. 
J. D. Woodward. 



61 
62 

64 
66 



Lochiel's Warning. 

Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day. 

Hallowed Ground. 

. . . . Shall make earth 
All hallozved ground ! 



J. D. Woodward. 67 



Alfred Fredericks. 70 



J. D. Woodward. 



75 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



IX 



SUBJECT ARTIST PAGE 

The Destruction of Sennacherib. 

And the widoius of Ashur are lottd in their liail. ALFRED FREDERICKS. 77 



Song of the Greek Poet. 



, . . . The isles of Greece ! 
Where burning Sappho loved and sung. 

The Burial of Sir John Moore. 

We left him alone with his glory. 

To a Skylark. 

The pale purple even 
Melts around thy flight. 

The world should listen then, as I am listening 
now ! 

The Cavei^n of the Three Tells. 

. . . . Within their silent cave 
The men of Grutli sleep I 



William Sartain, 78 



R. Swain Gifford. 83 



J. D. Woodward. 84 



Will. H. Low. 88 



T. W. Dewing. 



J. D. Woodward. 
J. D. Woodward. 



The Battle-Field. 

Once this soft turf, this rivulefs sattds. 

Tail-piece. 

Marco Bozzaris. 

He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke. 
For thee her poet's lyre is zvreathed. 

Ode on a Grecian Urn. 

What leaf-fringed legend haunts abotit thy shape. Frank Millet. 102 



Alfred Fredericks. 97 
Alfred Fredericks, too 



.... With hrede 
Of marble men a7td jnaidens ovenurought. 

Jeanie Morrison. 

Thy lips were on thy lesson — but 
My lesson was in thee. 



T. W. Dewing. 



Will. H. Low. 



103 



107 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



SUBJECT 

The Bridge of Sighs. 
Take her up tenderly. 

She stood, with amazement, 
Houseless by night. 

Naseby. 

Oh ! wJierefore come ye forth in triwnph from the 
north ? 

Forever down, with the mitre and the crown ! 

The Arsenal at Springfield, 

Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms. 
(History, Fame, and War.) 

The holy melodies of love arise. 
Our River. 



. . . . Tlie fond skies lean 
Above it. 

The Raven. 

. . . . Sttddenly there came a tapping. 

That shadow that lies floating on the 
floor. 

The Lotos-Eaters. 

A land of streams ! . . . . 

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach. 

The charmed sunset lingered low adown. 

Ulysses. 

To sail beyoiid the sunset. 

Break, Break, Break. 

. . . Break, 
On thy cold gray stones, Sea I 



W. T. Smedley. io8 



W. T. Smedley. 



Alfred Fredericks. 113 
Alfred Fredericks. 116 



T. W. Dewing. 



T. W. Dewing. 



119 



J. Appleton Brown. 122 



Will. H. Low. 



Will. H. Low. 



127 



133 



J. Appleton Brown. 134 

Will. H. Low. 138 

J. Appleton Brown. 141 

William Sartain. 144 

J. D. Woodward. 145 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



XI 



SUBJECT 

Mother and Poet. 

Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the east. 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 



Will. H. Low. 



How THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AlX. 

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the 

ground. F. O. C. Darley. 



146 



154 



Love among the Ruins. 

On the solitary pastures. 

. . . . She will speak not, she will stand. 

Either hand 
On my shoulder. 



Will. H. Low. 155 



Will. H. Low. 158 



The Forging of the Anchor. 

. . . . The ruddy lurid row 
Of smiths. 

Tail-piece. 



S. G. McCuTCHEON. 160 
S. G. McCuTCHEON. 163 



Ode to Happiness. 

Nymph of the unreturning feet. 

Tail-piece. 



T. W. Dewing. 165 

T. W. Dewing. 168 



Drifting. 



My winged boat, 
A bird afloat. 



Arthur Quartley. 172 



A Nice Correspondent. 

Tm alone at my casement. 
Tail-piece. 

Summer. 

Softly on yon banks of haze. 



Alfred Fredericks. 177 
Alfred Fredericks. 179 

J. Appleton Brown. 182 



xii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

SUBJECT ARTIST PAGE 

The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire (1571). 

The old mayor climbed the belfTj tower. Alfred FREDERICKS. 183 

" Cusha 1 Cusha 1 CiisJia t " calling. Alfred Fredericks. 189 

AUX ITALIENS. 

At Paris it was, at the opera there. Alfred Fredericks. 193 



Engraved by Messrs. Harley, Lauderbach, Morse, Dana, Foy, Britt, 

FiLMER, and Fay. 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



^, 








PROTHALAMION. 



BY EDMUND SPENSER. 

Calm was the day, and through the trembling air 

Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play — 

A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay 

Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair; 

When I (whom sullen care, 

Through discontent of my long fruitless stay 

In princes' court, and expectation vain 

Of idle hopes, which still do fly away 

Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain) 

Walk'd forth to ease my pain 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames; 

Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems, 

Was painted all with variable flowers, 

And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems 

Fit to deck maidens' bowers, 

And crown their paramours 

Against the bridal day, which is not long: 

Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

There in a meadow by the river's side 
A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy. 
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby, 
With goodly greenish locks all loose untied 
As each had been a bride ; 
And each one had a little wicker basket 
Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously. 
In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket, 
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously 
The tender stalks on high. 
Of every sort which in that meadow grew 
They gather'd some; the violet, paUid blue, 
The little daisy that at evening closes, 
The virgin lily and the primrose true: 
With store of vermeil roses, 
To deck their bridegrooms' posies 
Against the bridal day, which was not long: 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 

With that I saw two swans of goodly hue 

Come softly swimming down along the lee; 

Two fairer birds I yet did never see ; 

The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow 

Did never whiter show. 

Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be 

For love of Leda, whiter did appear; 



PROTHALAMION. 3 

Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he, 
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near; 
So purely white they were 

That even the gentle stream, the which them bare, 
Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare 
To wet their silken feathers, lest they might 
Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair, 
And mar their beauties bright 
That shone as Heaven's light 
Against their bridal day, which was not long: 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 

Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill. 
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood 
As they came floating on the crystal flood ; 
Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still 
Their wondering eyes to fill ; 
Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair 
Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem 
Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair 
Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team; 
For sure they did not seem 
To be begot of any earthly seed, 
But rather angels, or of angels' breed; 
Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say. 
In sweetest season, when each flower and weed 
The earth did fresh array ; 
So fresh they seem'd as day. 
Even as their bridal day, which was not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew 
Great store of flowers, the honor of the field, 
That to the sense did fragrant odors yield. 
All which upon those goodly birds they threw 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

And all the waves did strew, 

That like old Peneus' waters they did seem 

When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore 

Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessal)'- they stream. 

That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store, 

Like a bride's chamber-floor. 

Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound 

Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found, 

The which presenting all in trim array. 




Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd ; 
Whilst one did sing this lay 
Prepared against that day. 

Against their bridal day, which was not long: 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 



" Ye gentle birds ! the world's fair ornament, 
And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour 
Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower, 
Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content 
Of your love's complement; 



PRO THALAMION. 

And let fair Venus, that is queen of love, 

With her heart-quelling son upon you smile, 

Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove 

All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile 

For ever to assoil. 

Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord. 

And blessed plenty wait upon your board ; 

And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound. 

That fruitful issue may to you afford 

Which may your foes confound, 

And make your joys redound 

Upon your bridal day, which is not long: 

Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song." 

So ended she ; and all the rest around 
To her redoubled that her undersong, 
Which said their bridal day should not be long: 
And gentle Echo from the neighbor ground 
Their accents did resound. 
So forth those joyous birds did pass along 
Adown the lee that to them murmur'd low. 
As he would speak, but that he lack'd a tongue. 
Yet did by signs his glad affection show, 
Making his stream run slow. 
And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell 
'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel 
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend 
The lesser stars. So they, enranged well. 
Did on those two attend. 
And their best service lend 

Against their wedding day, which was not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 

At length they all to merry London came. 
To merry London, my most kindly nurse, 
3 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

That to me gave this life's first native source, 

Though from another place I take my name, 

An house of ancient fame : 

There when they came whereas those bricky towers 

The which on Thames' broad aged back do ride, 

Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, 

There whilome wont the Templar knights to bide, 

Till they decay'd through pride ; 

Next whereunto there stands a stately place, 

Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace 

Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell. 

Whose want too well now feels my friendless case ; 

But ah ! here fits not well 

Old woes, but joys to tell 

Against the bridal day, which is not long: 

Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer. 

Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder. 

Whose dreadful name late thro' all Spain did thunder. 

And Hercules' two pillars standing near 

Did make to quake and fear: 

Fair branch of honor, flower of chivalry ! 

That fillest England with thy triumphs' fame, 

Joy have thou of thy noble victory, 

And endless happiness of thine own name 

That promiseth the same ; 

That through thy prowess and victorious arms 

Thy country may be freed from foreign harms. 

And great Eliza's glorious name may ring 

Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms 

Which some brave Muse may sing 

To ages following. 

Upon the bridal day, which is not long: 

Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 



PRO THALAMION. 

From those high towers this noble lord issuing 
Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair 
In th' ocean billows he hath bathed fair, 
Descended to the river's open viewing 
With a great train ensuing. 
Above the rest were goodly to be seen 
Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature, 
Beseeming well the bower of any queen, 
With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature 
Fit for so goodly stature, 

That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight 
Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright; 
They two, forth pacing to the river's side, 
Received those two fair brides, their love's delight ; 
Which, at th' appointed tide, 
Each one did make his bride 
Against their bridal day, which is not long: 
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song. 




SONNETS. 

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 

When I consider every thing that grows 
Holds in perfection but a httle moment, 
That this huge state presenteth naught but shows 
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; 
When I perceive that men as plants increase, 
Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky, 
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, 
And wear their brave state out of memory, — 
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay 
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight. 
Where wasteful time debateth with decay, 
To change your day of youth to sullied night: 
And all in war with Time, for love of you, 
As he takes from you, I engraft you new. 

But wherefore do not you a mightier way 

Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time? 

And fortify yourself in your decay 

With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? 

Now stand you on the top of happy hours. 

And many maiden gardens, yet unset, 

With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers. 

Much liker than your painted counterfeit : 

So should the lines of life that life repair, 

Which this. Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, 



SONNETS. 

Neither in inward worth nor outward fair 
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. 

To give away yourself, keeps yourself still ; 

And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill. 

Who will believe my verse in time to come, 

If it were filled with your most high deserts? 

Though yet, Heaven knows, it is but as a tomb 

Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts. 

If I could write the beauty of your eyes, 

And in fresh numbers number all your graces. 

The age to come would say, This poet lies ; 

Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces. 

So should my papers, yellowed with their age. 

Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue ; 

And your true rights be termed a poet's rage, 

And stretched metre of an antique song : 

But were some child of yours alive that time. 
You should live twice — in it, and in my rhyme. 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate ; 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a date. 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
And often is his gold complexion dimmed. 
And every fair from fair sometime declines. 
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed ; 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, 
When in eternal lines to time thou growest. 
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 



DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. 

BY JAMES SHIRLEY. 

The glories of our birth and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armor against fate ; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings. 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 

And plant with laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield, 
They tame but one another still ; 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate, 
And must give up their murmuring breath, 
When they, pale captives ! creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow ; 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds : 
Upon death's purple altar, now. 

See where the victor victim bleeds ! 
All heads must come 
To the cold tomb ; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. 



LYCIDAS, 

An Elegy on Edward King, who was drowned in the Irish Chamiel 

in i6jj. 

BY JOHN MILTON. 

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, 
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, 
And with forced fingers rude 
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 
Compels me to disturb your season due : 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Begin then. Sisters of the sacred well 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string ; 
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse : 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favor my destined urn; 
And as he passes, turn 
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 



12 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, 
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. 




Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 

Under the opening eyelids of the morn, 

We drove afield, and both together heard 

What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn, 

Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night ; 

Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright. 

Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. 

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 

Temper'd to the oaten flute ; 

Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel 

From the glad sound would not be absent long; 

And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. 

But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, 
Now thou art gone, and never must return ! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 
And all their echoes, mourn: 
The willows and the hazel copses green 
Shall now no more be seen 
Fanning tlieir joyous leaves to thy soft lays: — 



L YCIDAS, 

As killing as the canker to the rose, 

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, 

Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear 

When first the white-thorn blows ; 

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 

Where were ye. Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 



13 




For neither were ye playing on the steep 

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: 

Ay me! I fondly dream — 

Had ye been there — for what could that have done? 

What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore. 

The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 

Whom universal nature did lament. 

When by the rout that made the hideous roar 

His gory visage down the stream was sent, 

Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? 



Alas! what boots it with incessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade. 



14 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 

Were it not better done, as others use, 

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 

Or with the tangles of Neasra's hair? 

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 

(That last infirmity of noble mind) 

To scorn delights, and live laborious days; 

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 

And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 

Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears 

And slits the thin-spun life. " But not the praise," 

Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears ; 

" Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. 

Nor in the glistering foil 

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies: 

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 

As he pronounces lastly on each deed. 

Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." 

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honor'd flood 
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds! 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood : 
But now my oat proceeds. 
And listens to the herald of the sea 
That came in Neptune's plea ; 
He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, 
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? 
And question'd every gust of rugged wings 
That blows from off each beaked promontory : 
They knew not of his story ; 
And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd ; 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. 



L YCIDAS. 



15 



It was that fatal and perfidious bark 

Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, 

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe : 
"Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge?" 
Last came, and last did go. 
The pilot of the Galilean lake ; 
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) ; 
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 
" How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, 
Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake 
Creep and intrude and climb into the fold ! 
Of other care they little reckoning make 
Than how to scramble at the shearer's feast. 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; 
Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold 




1 6 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least 

That to the faithful herdman's art belongs ! 

What recks it them ? What need they ? They are sped ; 

And when they list, their lean and flashy songs 

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ; 

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 

But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, 

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread : 

Besides what the grin wolf with privy paw 

Daily devours apace, and nothing said : 

But that two-handed engine at the door 

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." 

Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past 
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks 
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks. 
Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes 
That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. 
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine. 
The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet. 
The glowing violet. 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine. 
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears : 
Bid amarantus all his beauty shed. 
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears 
To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. 
For, so to interpose a little ease, 
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise ; 



L YCIDAS. 1*7 

Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 

Wash far away, — where'er thy bones are hurl'd, 

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides 

Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide, 

Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world ; 

Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 

Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. 

Where the great Vision of the guarded mount 

Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold, — 

Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth : 

And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth ! 

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, 
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead. 
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ; 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed. 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head 
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high 
Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves • 
Where, other groves and other streams along, 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song 
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
There entertain him all the saints above 
In solemn troops, and sweet societies. 
That sing, and, singing, in their glory move, 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, 
While the still morn went out with sandals gray ; 



i8 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : 
And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, 
And now was dropt into the western bay : 
At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue : 
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 




THEY ARE ALL GONE. 

BY HENRY VAUGHAN. 

They are all gone into the world of light, 

And I alone sit lingering here ! 
Their very memory is fair and bright, 
And my sad thoughts doth clear; 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 

Like stars upon some gloomy grove — 
Or those faint beams in which this hill is dressed 
After the sun's remove. 

I see them walking in an air of glory, 

Whose light doth trample on my days — 
My days which are at best but dull and hoary. 
Mere glimmerings and decays. 

O holy hope ! and high humility — 

High as the heavens above ! 
These are your walks, and you have showed them me 
To kindle my cold love. 

Dear, beauteous death — the jewel of the just — 

Shining nowhere but in the dark ! 
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust. 
Could man outlook that mark ! 



20 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, 

At first sight, if the bird be flown, 
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, 
That is to him unknown. 

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams 

Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, 
And into glory peep. 

If a star were confined into a tomb, 

Her captive flames must needs burn there. 
But when the hand that locked her up gives room, 
She'll shine through all the sphere. 

O Father of eternal life, and all 

Created glories under Thee! 
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 
Into true liberty. 

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 

My perspective still as they pass ; 
Or else remove me hence unto that hill 
Where I shall need no glass. 





THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain, 
Where smihng spring its earhest visit paid, 
And parting summer's Ungering blooms delayed! 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease — 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please! 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!. 



22 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

How often have I paused on every charm — 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topt the neighboring hill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade — 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blest the coming day, 1 

When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play, 

And all the village train, from labor free. 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 

While many a pastime circled in the shade. 

The young contending as the old surveyed ; 

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; 

And still as each repeated pleasures tired, 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired : 

The dancing pair, that simply sought renown 

By holding out, to tire each other down ; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face. 

While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. 

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove : 

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, . J 

With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; ■ 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed ; 

These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet-smiling village, loveliest of the lawn ! 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green ; 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain; 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest 



23 




Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay ; 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade — 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destro3'-ed, can never be supplied. 



A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintained its man: 
For him light labor spread her wholesome store- 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
His best companions, innocence and health, 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 



24 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose. 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
And every want to opulence allied. 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that asked but little room. 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour. 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown. 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 
I still had hopes — for pride attends us still — 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill. 
Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 2$ 

O blest retirement ! friend to life's decline ! 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine ! 
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While Resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow. 
The minoflinof notes came softened from below: 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young. 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
The playful children just let loose from school, 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind. 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail ; 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale ; 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread. 
For all the bloomy blush of life is fled — 
All but one widowed, solitary thing. 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 



26 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 




To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn- 
She only left of all the harmless train. 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 



Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the countr}'^ dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year. 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place ; 
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 27 

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize — 
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away ; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 
And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call. 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting Hfe was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 



28 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Truth from his Hps prevailed with double sway, 

And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 

The service past, around the pious man. 

With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; 

E'en children followed, with endearing wile, 

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. 

His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest; 

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest; 

To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, 

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 

Though round its breast the rolhng clouds are spread, 

Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay. 
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
I knew him well, and every truant knew: 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face; 
Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee, 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 
Full well the busy whisper, circHng round, 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; 
Yet he was kind— or, if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew; 
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. 
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge : 
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 
For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue still; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 29 

While words of learned length and thundering sound 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 
But past is all his fame ; the very spot, 
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 




Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, 

Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, 

Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 

And news much older than their ale went round. 

Imagination fondly stoops to trace 

The parlor splendors of that festive place : 

The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 

The varnished clock that clicked behind the door, 

The chest contrived a double debt to pay — 

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day, 



30 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the rojal game of goose; 
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, 
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay ; 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 

Vain, transitory splendor ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale. 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm than all the gloss of art : 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined; 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed — 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 31 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay ! 
'Tis yours to judge how wide the hmits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
And shouting folly hails them from her shore; 
Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a name. 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss: the man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied — 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds — 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds; 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth ; 
His seat, where sohtary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; 
Around the world each needful product flies 
For all the luxuries the world suppKes ; 
While thus the land, adorned for pleasure all, 
In barren splendor, feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorned and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies. 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 
But when those charms are past — for charms are frail — 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, sohcitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress : 
Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed. 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed; 
But, verging to decline, its splendors rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; 



32 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

While, scourged by famine from the smiHng land, 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where, shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? 
If, to some common's fenceless limits strayed, 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 
If to the city sped, what waits him there? 
To see profusion that he must not share; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see these joys the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign. 
Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square — 
The ratthng chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah! turn thine eyes 
Where the poor, houseless, shivering female lies. 
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 
Now lost to all — her friends, her virtue fled — 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 33 

And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower, 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 
When, idly first, ambitious of the town, 
She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn — thine the loveliest train — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. 

Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there, from all that charmed before. 
The various terrors of that horrid shore : 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing. 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
Those pois'nous fields, with rank luxuriance crowned, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. 
And savage men more murderous still than they ; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene — 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting day 
That called them from their native walks away ; 



34 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 

Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, 

And took a long farewell, and wished in vain, 

For seats like these beyond the western main ; 

And, shuddering still to face the distant deep. 

Returned and wept, and still returned to weep ! 

The good old sire the first prepared to go 

To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 

But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 

He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 

His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 

The fond companion of his helpless years, 

Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 

And left a lover's for her father's arms. 

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 

And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose ; 

And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 

And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear; 

Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 

In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O Luxury ! thou curst by heaven's decree. 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

Even now the devastation is begun. 
And half the business of destruction done; 
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 35 

I see the rural Virtues leave the land. 

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail 



That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale — 

Downward they move, a melancholy band. 

Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 

Contented toil, and hospitable care, 

And kind connubial tenderness are there; 

And piety with wishes placed above. 

And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. 

Still first to fly where sensual joys invade — 

Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 

To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ! 

Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried. 

My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ! 

Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe — 

That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ! 

Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel ! 

Thou nurse of every virtue — fare thee well ! 



36 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Farewell! — and oh! where'er thy voice be tried, 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side— 
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow- 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 
Redress the rigors of the inclement cHme ; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; 
Teach him that states, of native strength possest, 
Though very poor, may still be very blest; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labored mole away; 
While self-dependent power can time defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 




ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- 
YARD. 



BY THOMAS GRAY. 



The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; 

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 




Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning- flisfht, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 



38 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid. 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour — 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 



V 

i 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 



39 



Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust ? 
Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire — 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page. 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage. 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood — 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest. 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 
And read their history in a nation's eyes. 



40 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined — 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey. 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires: 

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 41 

For thee, who, mmdful of the unhonored dead. 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: 
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove — 

Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

"One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 

Another came — nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 

"The next, with dirges due in sad array, 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne: — 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth. 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 



42 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere — 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send; 

He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear, 

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode — 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 




ON A PICTURE OF PEEL CASTLE IN A STORM. 

{Painted by Sir George Beaumont^ 
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

I WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile ! 

Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: 
I saw thee every day; and all the while 

Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 




44 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air, 
So like, so very Hke, was day to day, 

Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there ; 
It trembled, but it never passed away. 

How perfect was the calm ! It seemed no sleep. 
No mood, which season takes away, or brings : 

I could have fancied that the mighty deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 

Ah ! then if mine had been the painter's hand 
To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam. 

The light that never was on sea or land. 
The consecration, and the poet's dream, — 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, 
Amid a world how different from this ! 

Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 

A picture had it been of lasting ease, 
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; 

No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, 

Such picture would I at that time have made ; 

And seen the soul of truth in every part, 

A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. 

So once it would have been, — 'tis so no more ; 

I have submitted to a new control : 
A power is gone, which nothing can restore; 

A deep distress hath humanized my soul. 



ON A PICTURE OF PEEL CASTLE IN A STORM. 45 

Not for a moment could I now behold 
A smiling sea, and be what I have been : 

The feeling- of my loss will ne'er be old; 

This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 

Then, Beaumont, friend ! who would have been the friend 
If he had lived, of him whom I deplore. 

This work of thine I blame not, but commend ; 
This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

O 'tis a passionate work! — yet wise and well, 

Well chosen is the spirit that is here; 
That hulk which labors in the deadly swell, 

This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! 

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 
I love to see the look with which it braves, — 

Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time — 

The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampHng waves. 

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, 
Housed in a dream, at distance from the kind! 

Such happiness, wherever it be known. 
Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely bhnd. 

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne! 

Such sights, or worse, as are before me here: — 
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 




SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 



BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



She was a phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament: 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair, 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn — 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 47 

A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 



I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too : 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food — 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill: 
A perfect woman, nobly planned. 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 



KILMENY. 

BY JAMES HOGG. 

Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen ; 
But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, 
Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, 
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 
It was only to hear the yorlin sing. 
And pu' the cress-flower round the spring — 
The scarlet hypp, and the hind berry, 
And the nut that hung frae the hazel tree ; 
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 
But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', 
And lang may she seek i' the green-wood shaw ; 
Lang the laird of Duneira blame, 
And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame. 

When many a day had come and fled. 
When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, 
When mass for Kilmeny 's soul had been sung, 
When the bedes-man had prayed, and the dead-bell rung 
Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still. 
When the fringe was red on the westlin hill, 
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane, 
The reek o' the cot hung over the plain — 
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane; 
When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme, 
Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came hame ! 



KILMENY. ^c) 

" Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ? 
Lang hae we sought both holt and den — 
By Hnn, by ford, and green-wood tree ; 
Yet you are halesome and fair to see. 
Where got you that joup o' the lily sheen? 
That bonny snood o' the birk sae green? 
And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen? 
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?" 

Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace. 
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face ; 
As still was her look, and as still was her ee, 
As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea, 
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. 
For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, 
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare ; 
Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, 
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew ; 
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung, 
And the airs of heaven played round her tongue, 
When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen. 
And a land where sin had never been — 
A land of love, and a land of Hght, 
Withouten sun, or moon, or night ; 
Where the river swa'd a living stream, 
And the light a pure celestial beam : 
The land of vision it would seem, 
A still, an everlasting dream. 

In yon green-wood there is a walk, 
And in that waik there is a wene, 

And in that wene there is a maike, 
That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane; 

And down in yon green-wood he walks his lane. 

In that green wene Kilmeny lay. 
Her bosom happed wi' the flowerets gay; 



50 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

But the air was soft, and the silence deep, 
And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep ; 
She kend nae mair, nor opened her ee, 
Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye. 




She 'wakened on a couch of the silk sae slim, 
All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim ; 
And lovely beings around were rife, 
Who erst had travelled mortal life ; 
And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer: 
" What spirit has brought this mortal here ? " 



" Lang have I journeyed the world wide," 
A meek and reverend fere replied ; 
" Baith night and day I have watched the fair 
Eident a thousand years and mair. 



KILMENY. 51 

Yes, I have watched o'er ilk degree, 

Wherever blooms femenitye ; 

But sinless virgin, free of stain. 

In mind and body, fand I nane. 

Never, since the banquet of time, 

Found I a virgin in her prime. 

Till late this bonny maiden I saw. 

As spotless as the morning snaw. 

Full twenty years she has lived as free 

As the spirits that sojourn in this countrye. 

I have brought her away frae the snares of men, 

That sin or death she may never ken," 

They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair; 
They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her hair; 
And round came many a blooming fere. 
Saying, '' Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here ; 
Women are freed of the littand scorn ; 
Oh, blest be the day Kilmeny was born! 
Now shall the land of the spirits see. 
Now shall it ken, what a woman may be ! 
Many a lang year in sorrow and pain. 
Many a lang year through the world we 've gane. 
Commissioned to watch fair womankind, 
For it's they who nurice the immortal mind. 
We have watched their steps as the dawning shone. 
And deep in the green-wood walks alone ; 
By lily bower and silken bed 
The viewless tears have o'er them shed ; 
Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep. 
Or left the couch of love to weep. 
We have seen ! we have seen ! but the time must come, 
And the angels will weep at the day of doom ! 

" Oh, would the fairest of mortal kind 
Aye keep the holy truths in mind. 



52 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

That kindred spirits their motions see, 
Who watch their ways with anxious ee, 
And grieve for the guilt of humanitye! 
Oh, sweet to heaven the maiden's prayer, 
And the sio-h that heaves a bosom sae fair ! 
And dear to heaven the words of truth 
And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth ! 
And dear to the viewless forms of air, 
The minds that kythe as the body fair! 

" O, bonny Kilmeny ! free frae stain, 
If ever you seek the world again — 
That world of sin, of sorrow and fear — 
Oh, tell of the joys that are waiting here ; 
And tell of the signs you shall shortly see ; 
Of the times that are now, and the times that shall be. 

They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away. 
And she walked in the light of a sunless day ; 
The sky was a dome of crystal bright. 
The fountain of vision, and fountain of light; 
The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, 
And the flowers of everlasting blow. 
Then deep in the stream her body they laid, 
That her youth and beauty never might fade; 
And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie 
In the stream of life that wandered by. 
And she heard a song — she heard it sung. 
She kend not where ; but sae sweetly it rung, 
It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn — 
" Oh ! blest be the day Kilmeny was born ! 
Now shall the land of the spirits see, 
Now shall it ken, what a woman may be! 
The sun that shines on the world sae bright, 
A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of light; 



KILMENY. 53 

And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, 
Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun — 
Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair; 
And the angels shall miss them, travelHng the air. 
But lang, lang after baith night and day, 
When the sun and the world have died away, 
When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom, 
Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom ! " 








They bore her away, she wist not how, 

For she felt not arm nor rest below; 

But so swift they wained her through the light, 

'Twas like the motion of sound or sight ; 

They seemed to split the gales of air. 

And yet nor gale nor breeze was there. 

Unnumbered groves below them grew; 



54 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

They came, they passed, and backward flew, 

Like floods of blossoms gliding on, 

In moment seen, in moment gone. 

Oh, never vales to mortal view 

Appeared like those o'er which they flew. 

That land to human spirits given, 

The lowermost vales of the storied heaven ; 

From whence they can view the world below, 

And heaven's blue gates with sapphires glow — 

More glory yet unmeet to know. 

They bore her far to a mountain green, 
To see what mortal never had seen ; 
And they seated her high on a purple sward. 
And bade her heed what she saw and heard. 
And note the changes the spirits wrought ; 
For now she lived in the Land of Thought. 
She looked, and she saw nor sun nor skies, 
But a crystal dome of a thousand dyes ; 
She looked, and she saw nae land aright, 
But an endless whirl of glory and light; 
And radiant beings went and came. 
Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame ; 
She hid her een frae the dazzling view ; 
She looked again, and the scene was new. 

She saw a sun on a summer sky, 
And clouds of amber sailing by ; 
A lovely land beneath her lay, 
And that land had glens and mountains gray ; 
And that land had valleys and hoary piles. 
And marled seas, and a thousand isles ; 
Its fields were speckled, its forests green. 
And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen, 
Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay 



KILMENY. 55 

The sun and the sky and the cloudlet gray, 

Which heaved and trembled, and gently swung; 

On every shore they seemed to be hung; 

For there they were seen on their downward plain 

A thousand times and a thousand again; 

In winding lake and placid firth — 

Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth. 

Kilmeny sighed and seemed to grieve, 
For she found her heart to that land did cleave; 
She saw the corn wave on the vale; 
She saw the deer run down the dale; 
She saw the plaid and the broad claymore. 
And the brows that the badge of freedom bore; 
And she thought she had seen the land before. 

She saw a lady sit on a throne. 
The fairest that ever the sun shone on! 
A lion Hcked her hand of milk, 
And she held him in a leish of silk. 
And a leifu' maiden stood at her knee, 
With a silver wand and melting ee — 
Her sovereign shield, till love stole in, 
And poisoned all the fount within. 

Then a gruff, untoward bedes-man came. 
And hundit the lion on his dame; 
And the guardian maid wi' the dauntless ee. 
She dropped a tear, and left her knee; 
And she saw till the queen frae the Hon fled. 
Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead; 
A coffin was set on a distant plain. 
And she saw the red blood fall like rain. 
Then bonny Kilmeny 's heart grew sair. 
And she turned away, and could look nae mair. 



56 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Then the gruff, grim carle girn6d amain, 
And they trampled him down — but he rose again ; 
And he baited the lion to deeds of weir, 
Till he lapped the blood to the kingdom dear ; 
And, weening his head was danger-preef 
When crowned with the rose and clover leaf, 
He growled at the carle, and chased him away 
To feed wi' the deer on the mountain gray. 
He growled at the carle, and he gecked at heaven; 
But his mark was set, and his arles given. 
Kilmeny a while her een withdrew ; 
She looked again, and the scene was new. 

She saw below her, fair unfurled, 
One half of all the glowing world. 
Where oceans rolled and rivers ran, 
To bound the aims of sinful man. 
She saw a people fierce and fell. 
Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell ; 
There lilies grew, and the eagle flew ; 
And she herked on her ravening crew. 
Till the cities and towers were wrapt in a blaze. 
And the thunder it roared o'er the lands and the seas. 
The widows they wailed, and the red blood ran. 
And she threatened an end to the race of man. 
She never lened, nor stood in awe, 
Till caught by the lion's deadly paw. 
Oh ! then the eagle swinked for life, 
And brainzelled up a mortal strife ; 
But flew she north, or flew she south. 
She met wi' the growl of the lion's mouth. 

With a mooted wing and waefu' maen, 
The eagle sought her eiry again; 
But lang may she cower in her bloody nest, 



KILMENY. 57 

And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast, 

Before she sey another flight, 

To play wi' the norland lion's might. 

But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw. 
So far surpassing nature's law, 
The singer's voice wad sink away, 
And the string of his harp wad cease to play. 
But she saw till the sorrows of man were by, 
And all was love and harmony ; 
Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away, 
Like the flakes of snaw on a winter's day. 

Then Kilmeny begged again to see 
The friends she had left in her own countrye. 
To tell of the place where she had been. 
And the glories that lay in the land unseen ; 
To warn the living maidens fair, 
The loved of heaven, the spirits' care. 
That all whose minds unmeled remain 
Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane. 

With distant music, soft and deep. 
They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep ; 
And when she awakened, she lay her lane. 
All happed with flowers in the green-wood wene. 
When seven long years had come and fled ; 
When grief was calm, and hope was dead ; 
When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name. 
Late, late in a gloamin, Kilmeny came hame ! 
And oh, her beauty was fair to see. 
But still and steadfast was her ee ! 
Such beauty bard may never declare. 
For there was no pride nor passion there ; 
And the soft desire of maidens* een. 



58 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 




In that mild face could never be seen. 
Her seymar was the lily flower, 
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower ; 
And her voice like the distant melodye 
That floats along the twilight sea. 
But she loved to raike the lanely glen, 
And keeped afar frae the haunts of men ; 
Her holy hymns unheard to sing, 
To suck the flowers and drink the spring. 
But wherever her peaceful form appeared, 
The wild beasts of the hills were cheered ; 
The wolf played blythely round the field, 
The lordly byson lowed and kneeled ; 



KILMENY. 59 

The dun deer wooed with manner bland, 

And cowered aneath her Uly hand. 

And when at even the woodlands rung, 

When hymns of other worlds she sung 

In ecstasy of sweet devotion, 

Oh, then the glen was all in motion! 

The wild beasts of the forest came, 

Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame, 

And goved around, charmed and amazed; 

Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed. 

And murmured and looked with anxious pain, 

For something the mystery to explain. 

The buzzard came with the throstle-cock. 

The corby left her houf in the rock; 

The black-bird alang wi' the eagle flew ; 

The hind came tripping o'er the dew; 

The wolf and the kid their raike began; 

And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran; 

The hawk and the hern attour them hung. 

And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young; 

And all in a peaceful ring were hurled: 

It was like an eve in a sinless world! 

When a month and day had come and gane, 
Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene; 
There laid her down on the leaves sae green. 
And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. 
But oh, the words that fell from her mouth, 
Were words of wonder, and words of truth ! 
But all the land were in fear and dread, 
For they kend na whether she was living or dead. 
It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain ; 
She left this world of sorrow and pain. 
And returned to the Land of Thought again. 



LOCHINVAR. 

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west, 
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; 
And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war. 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone. 

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; 

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late : 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all : 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) 

" O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" 

" I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ; — 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide — 
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 



LOCHINVAR. 

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 

The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up, 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — 
" Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. 



6i 




So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume ; 

And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere better, by far. 

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." 



One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 

When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood 



near; 

lO 



62 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 
" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; 
They '11 have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Loch- 
invar. 

There was mounting 'mong GrEemes of the Netherby clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode, and they 

ran : 
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 




HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF 
CHAMOUNI. 

BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form, 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black — 
An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine. 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee. 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced in prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. 
So sweet we know not we are listening to it. 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought - 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy — 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused. 
Into the mighty vision passing — there. 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 



64 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise 
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 




Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! 
Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night. 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink — 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald — wake, oh wake, and utter praise! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 



HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 65 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks. 
For ever shattered and the same for ever? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? 
And who commanded (and the silence came), 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living fiowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? 
God ! — let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! 

Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 



66 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, 

Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast — 

Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 

That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 

In adoration, upward from thy base 

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 

Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud. 

To rise before me — Rise, oh ever rise ! 

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth ! 

Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, 

Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 

Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 

Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 




\ 




TO NIGHT. 



BY JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 



Mysterious Night ! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame. 

This glorious canopy of light and blue? 

Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus with the host of heaven came, 

And lo ! creation widened in man's view. 

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 
Within thy beams, O sun! or who could find, 

Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind! 

Why do we then shun death with anxious strife? 

If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life? 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
WIZARD, 

LOCHIEL, Lochiel! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. 
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 
'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led — 
Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave. 

LOCHIEL. 

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 



.^ 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING, 69 



WIZARD. 

Ha ! laiigh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? 

Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! 

Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth 

From his home in the dark rolling clouds of the north ? 

Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode 

Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 

But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! 

Ah ! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh. 

Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast 

Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 

'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 

From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 

O, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might. 

Whose banners arise on the battlements' height. 

Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; 

Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 

And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 



LOCHIEL. 

False wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my clan; 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! 
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath. 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause. 
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 



70 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 




WIZARD. 

— Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; 

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. 

But man cannot cover what God would reveal ! 

'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore. 

And coming events cast their shadows before. 

I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 

With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. 

Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath. 

Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 

Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight ; 

Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. yi 

'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors ; 

Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. 

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? where? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn. 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn? 

Ah no! for a darker departure is near; 

The war-drum is mufifled, and black is the bier; 

His death-bell is tolling. O Mercy, dispel 

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 

And his blood-sti^eaming nostril in agony swims. 

Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, 

Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat, 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — 

LOCHIEL. 

— Down, sootless insulter ! I trust not the tale ! 

For never shall Albin a destiny meet 

So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 

Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, 

Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, 

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low. 

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! 

And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, 

Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. 



HALLOWED GROUND. 

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God, 

Erect and free, 
Unscourged by Superstition's rod 

To bow the knee? 

That's hallowed ground where, mourned and missed, 
The lips repose our love has kissed : — 
But where's their memory's mansion? Is't 

Yon churchyard's bowers ? 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 

Where mated hearts are mutual bound ; 

The spot where love's first links were wound. 

That ne'er are riven. 
Is hallowed, down to earth's profound, 

And up to heaven ! 

For time makes all but true love old ; 
The burning thoughts that then were told 
Run molten still in memory's mould, 

And will not cool 
Until the heart itself be cold 

In Lethe's pool. 



HALLOWED GROUND. 

What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! — 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom, 
Or genii twine beneath the deep 

Their coral tomb. 

But strew his ashes to the wind 

Whose sword or voice has served mankind — 

And is he dead whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high? — 
To live in hearts we leave behind 

Is not to die. 

Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right? 
He's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — 
What can alone ennoble fight? 

A noble cause ! 

s 

Give that ! and welcome war to brace 

Her drums, and rend heaven's reeking space ! 

The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear. 

And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven! — But Heaven rebukes my zeal. 
The cause of truth and human weal, 

O God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To peace and love. 



73 



74 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Peace ! love ! — the cherubim that join 
Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine ! 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 

Where they are not ; 
The heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust. 
And pompous rites in domes august? 
See mouldering stones and metal's rust 

Belie the vaunt, 
That men can bless one pile of dust 

With chime or chant. 

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 
Thy temples, creeds themselves, grow wan! 
But there's a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 

Its space is heaven ! 

Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, 
Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling. 
And God himself to man revealing. 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard their pealing 

By mortal ears. 

Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure? 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 

Aspect above? 
Ye must be heavens that make us sure 

Of heavenly love! 



HALLOWED GROUND. 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time: 
That man's regenerate soul from crime 

Shall yet be drawn, 
And reason, on his mortal clime. 

Immortal dawn. 

What's hallowed ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
Peace ! independence ! truth ! go forth, 

Earth's compass round ; 
And your high priesthood shall make earth 

All hallowed ground! 



75 




THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

BY LORD BYRON. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still. 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 



77 



And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord. 




SONG OF THE GREEK POET. 

BY LORD BYRON. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace — 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet ; 
But all, except their sun, is set. 




SONG OF THE GREEK POET. 79 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 
Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 

Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo farther west 
Than your sires' Islands of the Blest. 

The mountains look on Marathon, 

And Marathon looks on the sea; 
And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free; 
For, standing on the Persian's grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sat on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
And men in nations — all were his! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set, where were they? 

And where are they? and where art thou, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now. 
The heroic bosom beats no more! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine. 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame. 
Though linked among a fettered race. 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Ev'n as I sing, suffuse my face; 

For what is left the poet here? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 



8o FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 

Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth, render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Therm opyl2e ! 

What! silent still? and silent all? 

Ah no ! — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one, arise — we come, we come!" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain ! in vain ! strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call. 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, — 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine ; 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant; but our masters then 
Were still at least our countrymen. 



SONG OF THE GREEK POET. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was Freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
That tyrant was Miltiades! 

Oh that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore; 
And there perhaps some seed is sown 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells; 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep. 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die. 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

BY CHARLES WOLFE. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning, 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light. 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin inclosed his breast. 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 
And we far away on the billow. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done. 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone with his glory. 



83 




TO A SKYLARK. 



BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 




TO A SKYLARK. 85 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun 
O'er which clouds are brightening, 

Thou dost float and run, 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of heaven 
In the broad dayHght 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere. 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare. 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. 

What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 
13 



86 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the Hght of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden, 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 

Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view : 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered, 

Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers. 

All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird. 

What sweet thoughts are thine: 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 



TO A SKYLARK. 8/ 

Chorus hymeneal 

Or triumphal chant 
Matched with thine, would be all 

But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains? 

What shapes of sky or plain? 
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be: 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee: 
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 

We look before and after. 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 
That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know. 
Such harmonious madness 

From my lips would flow 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now ! 




LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. 

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 

I ARISE from dreams of thee 

In the first sweet sleep of night, 
When the winds are breathins: low 

And the stars are shining bright : 
I arise from dreams of thee, 

And a spirit in my feet 
Has led me — who knows how? — 

To thy chamber-window, sweet ! 

The wandering airs they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream ; 

The champak odors fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 

The nightingale's complaint 
It dies upon her heart. 

As I must die on thine 

beloved as thou art ! 

O lift me from the grass! 

1 die, I faint, I fail! 
Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my Hps and eyehds pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 

My heart beats loud and fast; 
O press it close to thine again, 

Where it will break at last. 



THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS. 

BY FELICIA HEMANS. 

Oh ! enter not yon shadowy cave, 
Seek not the bright spars there, 
Though whispering pines that o'er it wave 
With freshness fill the air; 

For there the patriot three. 

In the garb of old arrayed, 
By their native forest-sea 
On a rocky couch are laid. 

The patriot three, that met of yore 

Beneath the midnight sky, 
And leagued their hearts on the Griitli shore 
In the name of liberty ! 

Now silently they sleep 

Amidst the hills they freed ; 
But their rest is only deep 

Till their country's hour of need. 

They start not at the hunter's call, 

Nor the lammergeyer's cry, 
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall, 
Nor the lauwine thundering by. 

And the Alpine herdsman's lay, 

To the Switzer's heart so dear. 
On the wild wind floats away. 
No more for them to hear. 



THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS. 91 

But when the battle-honi is blown 

Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply, 
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone 
Through the eagle's lonely sky, 

When the spear-heads light the lakes, 

When the trumpets loose the snows, 
When the rushing war-steed shakes 
The glacier's mute repose, 

When Uri's beechen woods wave red 

In the burning hamlets' Hght, — 
Then from the cavern of the dead 
Shall the sleepers wake in might, 

With a leap like Tell's proud leap. 

When away the helm he flung. 
And boldly up the steep 

From the flashing billow sprung! 

They shall wake beside their forest-sea. 

In the ancient garb they wore 
When they linked the hands that made us free. 
On the Griitli's moonlit shore ; 

And their voices shall be heard, 

And be answered with a shout. 
Till the echoing Alps are stirred, 
And the signal-fires blaze out. 

And the land shall see such deeds again 

As those of that proud day. 
When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain, 
Through the serried spears made way ; 
And when the rocks came down 

On the dark Morgarten dell, 
And the crowned casques, o'erthrown. 
Before our fathers fell ! 



92 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

For the Kuhreihen's notes must never sound 

In a land that wears the chain, 
And the vines on Freedom's holy ground 
Untrampled must remain, 

And the yellow harvests wave 

For no stranger's hand to reap. 
While within their silent cave 
The men of Grlitli sleep! 





THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 

And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud. 



Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her brave — 
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,. 

Upon the soil they fought to save. 
14 



94 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still ; 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 
And talk of children on the hill, 

And bell of wandering- kine are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; 
Men start not at the battle-cry — 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now, 
Thy warfare only ends with life — 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year; 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
And blench not at thy chosen lot; 

The timid good may stand aloof. 

The sage may frown — yet faint thou not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast. 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 
The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again — 
The eternal years of God are hers ; 

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain. 
And dies among his worshippers. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

Yea, though thou he upon the dust, 

When they who helped thee flee in fear. 

Die full of hope and manly trust, 
Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave. 

Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 



95 




*>!?*" 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 

BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in supphance bent, 

Should tremble at his power. 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring — 
Then pressed that monarch's throne, a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing. 

As Eden's garden bird. 



At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band — 
True as the steel of their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
There had the glad earth drunk their blood. 

On old Platcea's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arms to strike, and soul to dare, 

As quick, as far, as they. 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 



97 




An hour passed on — the Turk awoke : 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" 
He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke. 

And death-shots falhng thick and fast 
As hghtnings from the mountain-cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 
"Strike — till the last armed foe expires! 
Strike — for your altars and your fires ! 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires! 

God, and your native land!" 



gS FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

They fought — like brave men, long and well; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose. 

Like flowers at set of sun. 



Come to the bridal chamber. Death, 

Come to the mother's, when she feels, 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake-shock, the ocean storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm, 

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine ; 
And thou art terrible — the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
And in its hollow tones are heard 
The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of Fame is wrought — 
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought — 
Come in her crowning hour — and then 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 

Thy sunken eye's unearthly Hght 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of palm. 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm. 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris, with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time. 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave. 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee. 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume. 
Like torn branch from Death's leafless tree, 
In Sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxury of the tomb. 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone. 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed 
For thee she rings the birth-day bells ; 
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; 
For thine her evening prayer is said, 
At palace couch, and cottage bed; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe. 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years, 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. 

And she, the mother of thy boys, 



99 



lOO 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak, 

The memory of her buried joys — 
And even she who gave thee birth, 
Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth, 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's- 
One of the few, the immortal names 

That were not born to die. 



^^r^'^'i I IfTi 




ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 

BY JOHN KEATS. 

Thou still unravished bride of Quietness! 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time! 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 

Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 

What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? 
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; 
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bhss; 
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu; 

And, happy melodist, unwearied, 
Forever piping songs forever new; 
15 



I02 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 




More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed, 
Forever panting and forever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above, 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 



Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 
To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 



103 



Lead's! thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 

And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? 
What little town by river or sea-shore, 
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? 
And, little town, thy streets for ever more 
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity: Cold pastoral! 

When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 








JEANIE MORRISON. 

BY WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 

Through mony a weary way, 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young day ! 
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en 

May weel be black gin Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cule. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

The thochts o' bygane years 
Still fling their shadows owre my path, 

And blind my een wi' tears ; 
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears ; 

And sair and sick I pine. 
As memory idly summons up 

The blythe blinks o' langsyne. 

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

'Twas then we twa did part ; 
Sweet time — sad time! twa bairns at schule, 

Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink. 

To leir ilk ither lear ; 
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed. 

Remembered evermair. 



JEAN IE MORRISON. 105 

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 

When sitting on that bink. 
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof. 

What our wee heads could think. 
When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, 

Wi' ae buik on our knee. 
Thy lips were on thy lesson — but 

My lesson was in thee. 

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads. 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame. 
Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said 

We cleek'd thegether hame? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays 

(The schule then skailt at noon) 
When we ran aff to speel the braes — 

The broomy braes o' June? 

My head rins round and round about, 

My heart flows like a sea. 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

O' schule-time and o' thee. 
Oh, mornin' life ! oh, mornin' luve ! 

Oh, lichtsome days and lang, 
When hinnied hopes around our hearts 

Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 

Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 

The deavin' dinsome toun. 
To wander by the green burnside, 

And hear its waters croon? 
The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, 

The flowers burst round our feet. 
And in the gloamin' o' the wood 

The throssil whusslit sweet ; 



I06 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

The throssil whusslit in the wood, 

The burn sang to the trees, 
And we, with Nature's heart in tune, 

Concerted harmonies ; 
And on the knowe abune the burn. 

For hours thegither sat 
In the silentness o' joy, till baith 

Wi' very gladness grat. 

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trickled doun your cheek. 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 

Had ony power to speak. 
That was a time, a blessed time, 

When hearts were fresh and young, 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung ! 

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I ha'e been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts. 

As ye ha'e been to me ! 
Oh, tell me gin their music fills 

Thine ear, as it does mine? 
Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 

I've borne a weary lot ; 
But in my wanderings, far or near. 

Ye never were forgot. 
The fount that first burst frae this heart 

Still travels on its way. 
And channels deeper, as it rins. 

The luve o' life's young day. 



JEANIE MORRISON. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sindered young 
I've never seen your face nor heard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
But I could hug all wretchedness, 

And happy could I dee, 
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 

O' bygane days and me! 



107 





THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

BY THOMAS HOOD. 
" Drowned ! Drowned ! " — Hamlet. 

One more unfortunate, 
Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate. 
Gone to her death ! 



Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ! 
Fashioned so slenderly — 
Young, and so fair! 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 1 09 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements, 
Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing; 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing! 

Touch her not scornfully ! 
Think of her mournfully, 
Gently and humanly — 
Not of the stains of her; 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny, 
Rash and undutiful; 
Past all dishonor. 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all sUps of hers — 
One of Eve's family — 
Wipe those poor lips of hers. 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb — 
Her fair auburn tresses — 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home? 

Who was her father? 
Who was her mother? 
Had she a sister? 
Had she a brother? 
16 



no FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun ! 
Oh ! it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full. 
Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 
Feelings had changed ; 
Love, by harsh evidence. 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 

So far in the river. 

With many a light 

From window and casement, 

From garret to basement. 

She stood, with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver: 
But not the dark arch, 
Or the black flowing river; 
Mad from life's history. 
Glad to death's mystery 
Swift to be hurled — 
Anywhere, anywhere 
Out of the world! 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. m 

In she plunged boldly — 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran — 
Over the brink of it ! 
Picture it, think of it ! 
Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it. 
Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ! 
Fashioned so slenderly — 
Young, and so fair! 

Ere her limbs, frigidly, 
Stiffen too rigidly, 
Decently, kindly, 
Smooth and compose them ; 
And her eyes, close them, 
Staring so blindly ! 
Dreadfully staring 
Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely. 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity. 
Into her rest ! 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast ! 



112 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



Owning her weakness, 
Her evil behavior, 
And leaving-, with meekness. 
Her sins to her Saviour! 





NASEBY. 

BY THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 

Oh ! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the north, 
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red ? 
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? 
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye tread ? 



Oh! evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that Ave trod ; 

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the 

strong, 
Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God. 



1 14 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 

That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine, 

And the man of blood was there, with his long, essenced 

hair, 
And Astly, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword. 
The general rode along us to form us for the fight ; 
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a 

shout 
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right. 

And hark ! like the roar of the billows on the shore. 
The cry of battle rises along their charging line : 
" For God ! for the cause ! for the Church ! for the laws ! 
For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!" 

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums. 

His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall ; 

They are bursting on our flanks ! Grasp your pikes ! Close 

your ranks ! 
For Rupert never comes, but to conquer or to fall. 

They are here — they rush on — we are broken — we are 

gone — 
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. 
O Lord, put forth thy might ! O Lord, defend the right ! 
Stand back to back, in God's name ! and fight it to the 

last! 

Stout Skippen hath a wound — the centre hath given ground. 
Hark ! hark ! what means the trampling of horsemen on 

our rear? 
Whose banner do I see, boys ? 'Tis he ! thank God ! 'tis 

he, boys ! 
Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here! 



NASEBY. 



115 



Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row : 
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes, 
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the accurst, 
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. 

Fast, fast the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide 
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar; 
And he — he turns! he flies! shame on those cruel eyes 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war ! 

Ho, comrades ! scour the plain ; and ere ye strip the slain. 
First give another stab to make your search secure ; 
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and 

lockets. 
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. 

Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts 

were gay and bold, 
When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day ; 
And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the 

rocks 
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. 

Where be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven, and 

hell, and fate? 
And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades? 
Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches, and your oaths? 
Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your 

spades ? 

Down ! down ! forever down, with the mitre and the crown ! 
With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope ! 
There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham's 

stalls ; 
The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends his cope. 



ii6 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, 
And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's 

sword ; 
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they 

hear 
What the hand of God hath wrought for the houses and 

the Word! 




EACH AND ALL. 

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 

Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; 

The heifer that lows in the upland farm, 

Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; 

The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, 

Deems not that great Napoleon 

Stops his horse, and lists with delight, 

Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height. 

Nor knowest thou what argument 

Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 

All are needed by each one — 

Nothing is fair or good alone. 

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, 

Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; 

I brought him home, in his nest, at even; 

He sings the song, but it pleases not now ; 

For I did not bring home the river and sky ; 

He sang to my ear — they sang to my eye. 

The delicate shells lay on the shore ; 

The bubbles of the latest wave 

Fresh pearls to their enamel gave. 

And the bellowing of the savage sea 

Greeted their safe escape to me. 

I wiped away the weeds and foam — 

I fetched my sea-born treasures home ; 
17 



Il8 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

But the poor, unsightly, noisome things 

Had left their beauty on the shore, 

With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar. 

The lover watched his graceful maid. 

As 'mid the virgin train she strayed ; 

Nor knew her beauty's best attire 

Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 

At last she came to his hermitage. 

Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage ; 

The gay enchantment was undone — 

A gentle wife, but fairy none. 

Then I said, " I covet truth ; 

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat ; 

I leave it behind with the games of youth." 

As I spoke, beneath my feet 

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, 

Running over the club-moss burrs ; 

I inhaled the violet's breath; 

Around me stood the oaks and firs; 

Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground ; 

Over me soared the eternal sky, 

Full of light and of deity ; 

Again I saw, again I heard, 

The rolling river, the morning bird; 

Beauty through my senses stole — 

I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling-, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 




120 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise — how wild and dreary — 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus — 
The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer; 

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song 
And loud, amid the universal clamor, 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din; 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketr}^ the clashing blade, 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder. 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 
With such accursed instruments as these. 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, 
And jarrest the celestial harmonics? 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 121 

Were half the power that fills the world with terror, 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, 

Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals nor forts ; 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred; 

And every nation that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain ! 

Down the dark future, through long generations, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace ! " 

Peace! — and no longer from its brazen portals 
The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies ; 

But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 




OUR RIVER. 

BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

Once more on yonder laurelled height 

The summer flowers have budded; 
Once more with summer's golden light 

The vales of home are flooded ; 
And once more, by the grace of Him 

Of every good the Giver, 
We sing upon its wooded rim 

The praises of our river: 



Its pines above, its waves below. 
The west-wind down it blowing, 

As fair as when the young Brissot 
Beheld it seaward flowing, 



OUR RIVER. 

And bore its memory o'er the deep, 

To soothe a martyr's sadness, 
And fresco, in his troubled sleep, 

His prison-walls with gladness. 

We know the world is rich with streams 

Renowned in song and story, 
Whose music murmurs through our dreams 

Of human love and glory ; 
We know that Arno's banks are fair. 

And Rhine has castled shadows, 
And, poet-tuned, the Doon and Ayr 

Go singing down their meadows. 

But while, unpictured and unsung 

By painter or by poet. 
Our river waits the tuneful tongue 

And cunning hand to show it, 
We only know the fond skies lean 

Above it, warm with blessing. 
And the sweet soul of our Undine 

Awakes to our caressing. 

No fickle sun-god holds the flocks 

That graze its shores in keeping; 
No icy kiss of Dian mocks 

The youth beside it sleeping : 
Our Christian river loveth most 

The beautiful arid human ; 
The heathen streams of Naiads boast, 

But ours of man and woman. 

The miner in his cabin hears 
The ripple we are hearing; 



123 



124 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

It whispers soft to homesick ears 

Around the settler's clearing : 
In Sacramento's vales of corn, 

Or Santee's bloom of cotton, 
Our river by its valley-born 

Was never yet forgotten. 

The drum rolls loud, the bugle fills 

The summer air with clangor ; 
The war-storm shakes the solid hills 

Beneath its tread of anger ; 
Young eyes that last year smiled in ours 

Now point the rifle's barrel. 
And hands then stained with fruits and flowers 

Bear redder stains of quarrel. 

But blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on. 

And rivers still keep flowing. 
The dear God still his rain and sun 

On good and ill bestowing. 
His pine-trees whisper, "Trust and wait!" 

His flowers are prophesying 
That all we dread of change or fate 

His love is underlying. 

And thou, O Mountain-born, no more 

We ask the wise Allotter 
Than for the firmness of thy shore, 

The calmness of thy water, 
The cheerful lights that overlay 

Thy rugged slopes with beauty, 
To match our spirits to our day 

And make a joy of duty. 



THE HAUNTED PALACE. 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE. 

In the greenest of our valleys, 

By good angels tenanted, 
Once a fair and stately palace — 

Radiant palace — reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion 

It stood there. 
Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair. 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow 
(This, all this, was in the olden 

Time long ago). 
And every gentle air that dallied, 

In that sweet day, 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley, 

Through two luminous windows, saw 
Spirits moving musically 

To a lute's well-tuned law, 
Round about a throne where, sitting 

(Porphyrogene ! ) 
In state his glory well befitting. 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 



126 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door, 
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 

And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing, 
In voices of surpassing beauty, 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow. 

Assailed the monarch's high estate. 
Ah, let us mourn ! — for never morrow 

Shall dawn upon him desolate ! 
And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed, 
Is but a dim-remembered story 

Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers now, within that valley, 

Through the red-litten windows see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody ; 
While, Hke a ghastly, rapid river, 

Through the pale door 
A hideous throng rush out forever. 

And laugh — but smile no more. 




THE RAVEN. 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and 

weary. 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a 

tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber 

door. t^. 

" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber 

door: 

Only this, and nothing more." 



128 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak Decem- 
ber, 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the 
floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had sought to 
borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost 
Lenore — 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 
Lenore — 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple cur- 
tain 

Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt be- 
fore ; 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood re- 
peating, 

" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
door, — 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
door : 

This it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger : hesitating then no 
longer, 

" Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I im- 
plore ; 

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came 
rapping. 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber 
door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide 
the door ; — 

Darkness there, and nothing more ! 



THE RAVEN. 1 29 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, won- 
dering, fearing. 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream 
before ; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no 
token, 

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word 
" Lenore! " 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word 
" Lenore ! " 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burn- 
ing, 

Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than be- 
fore. 

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window- 
lattice ; 

Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery ex- 
plore, — 

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore : 
• 'Tis the wind, and nothing more!" 

Open then I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and 

flutter, 
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of 

yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant stopped or 

staid he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber 

door, — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber 

door, — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 



130 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



Then this ebony bird beguiUng my sad fancy into smiHng, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it 
wore, 

" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, 
" art sure no craven ; 

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the night- 
ly shore ! 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian 
shore ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so 

plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore ; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber 

door — 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber 

door — 

With such name as " Nevermore ! " 

But the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did out- 
pour. 

Nothing further then he uttered — not a feather then he 
fluttered — 

Till I scarcely more than nluttered, " Other friends have 
flown before — 

On the morrow Jie will leave me, as my hopes have flown 
before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore ! " 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and 
store, 



THE RAVEN. 131 

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful dis- 
aster 

Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden 
bore, — 

Till the dirges of his hope one melancholy burden bore, 
Of — " Never — nevermore ! " 

But the raven still beguiUng all my sad soul into smil- 

ino" 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and 

bust, and door; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 

yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird 

of yore 

Meant in croaking " Nevermore ! " 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's 
core ; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclin- 
ing 

On the cushion's velvet Uning that the lamp-light gloated 
o'er, 

But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-Hght gloating 
o'er, 

She shall press — ah! nevermore! 

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an 
unseen censer, 

Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted 
floor. 

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee, by these an- 
gels he hath sent thee. 



132 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



Respite — respite and nepenthe from the memories of Le- 

nore ! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Le- 

nore ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird 

or devil! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here 

ashore. 
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, 
In this home by horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore. 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I 

implore ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird 

or devil! 
By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we 

both adore, 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant 

Aiden, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Le- 

nore ; 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name 

Lenore ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I 

shrieked, upstarting — 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian 

shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath 

spoken ! 



THE RAVEN. 



133 



Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my 

door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from 

off my door ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 

dreaming. 
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow 

on the floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the 

floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore! 
19 





THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



BY ALFRED TENNYSON. 



" Courage ! " he said, and pointed toward the land, 
" This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon. 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



135 



A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke, 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; 

And some through wavering lights and shadows broke. 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

From the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops, 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 

Stood sunset-flushed : and, dewed with showery drops, 

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 

The charmed sunset lingered low adown 

In the red west : through mountain-clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 

Bordered with palm, and many a winding vale 

And meadow, set with slender galingale ; 

A land where all things always seemed the same ! 

And round about the keel with faces pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 

The mild-eyed, melancholy lotos-eaters came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem. 

Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 

To each, but whoso did receive of them, 

And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 

Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave 

On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake. 

His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; 

And deep-asleep he seemed, yet all awake, 

And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand. 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore 



136 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, " We will return no more ; " 
And all at once they sang-, " Our island-home 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam." 



CHORIC SONG. 

I. 
There is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass. 
Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies 
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes ; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep. 
And through the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long-leafed flowers weep, 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 

II. 
Why are we weighed upon with heaviness, 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 
While all things else have rest from weariness? 
All things have rest : why should we toil alone, 
We only toil, who are the first of things. 
And make perpetual moan. 
Still from one sorrow to another thrown : 
Nor ever fold our wings, 
And cease from wanderings, 
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; 
Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 
" There is no joy but calm ! " 
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



III. 



137 



Lo ! in the middle of the wood 

The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud 

With winds upon the branch, and there 

Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 

Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon 

Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 

Falls, and floats adown the air. 

Lo ! sweetened with the summer light, 

The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allotted length of days, 

The flower ripens in its place. 

Ripens and fades, and falls and hath no toil. 

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 



IV. 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky. 

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 

Death is the end of life : ah, why 

Should life all labor be? 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast. 

And in a little while our lips are dumb. 

Let us alone. What is it that will last? 

All things are taken from us, and become 

Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. 

Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 

To war with evil? Is there any peace 

Li ever climbing up the climbing wave? 

All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 

Li silence ; ripen, fall, and cease : 

Give us long rest or death, dark death or dreamful ease. 



138 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



V. 
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, 
With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, 
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height : 
To hear each other's whispered speech ; 
Eating the lotos day by day. 
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 
And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; 
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy ; 
To muse and brood and live again in memory, 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heaped over with a mound of grass. 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass ! 




THE LOTOS-EATERS. 139 

VI. 
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 
And their warm tears : but all hath suffered change ; 
For surely now our household hearths are cold : 
Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 
Or else the island-princes overbold 
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings 
Before them of the ten-years' war in Troy, 
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle? 
Let what is broken so remain. 
The gods are hard to reconcile : 
'Tis hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death, 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain. 
Long labor unto aged breath, 
Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars. 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. 

VII. 
But, propped on beds of amaranth and moly, 
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) 
With half-dropped eyeUds still. 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave through the thick-twined vine — 
To watch the emerald-colored water falling 
Through many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine! 
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine. 
Only. to hear were sweet, stretched out beneath the pine. 



I^o FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



VIII. 



The lotos blooms below the barren peak: 

The lotos blows by every winding creek : 

All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone : 

Through every hollow cave and alley lone, 

Round and round the spicy downs, the yellow lotos-dust is 

blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, 
Rolled to starboard, rolled to larboard, when the surge was 

seething free, 
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in 

the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind. 
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined 
On the hills like gods together, careless of mankind. 
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled 
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly 

curled 
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming 

world : 
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands. 
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps 

and fiery sands. 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and 

praying hands. 
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful 

song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, 
Like a tale of little meaning, though the words are strong ; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil. 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat and wine and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis whispered, down 

in hell 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



141 



Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; 
Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. 




ULYSSES. 

BY ALFRED TENNYSON. 

It little profits that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags. 

Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 

I can not rest from travel : I will drink 

Life to the lees : all times I have enjoyed 

Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 

Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vexed the dim sea : I am become a name ; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known ; cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments. 

Myself not least, but honored of them all ; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough 

Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades 

Forever and forever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnished, not to shine in use ! 

As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 



ULYSSES. 143 

Little remains : but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something more, 
A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 
For some three suns to store and hoard myself. 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge, like a sinking star. 
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and through soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port : the vessel puffs her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, 
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me, 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads, you and I are old : 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all: but something ere the end. 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 



144 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Though much is taken, much abides; and though 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are 

One equal temper of heroic hearts. 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 





BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 

BY ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad. 
That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill : 

But O for the touch of a vanished hand. 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 




MOTHER AND POET. 

( Ttirm, after news from Gaeta, iS6i.) 
BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the east, 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 

Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast, 
And are wanting a great song for Italy free, 
Let none look at me! 



Yet I was a poetess only last 3^ear, 

And good at my art, for a woman, men said. 

But this woman, this, who is agonized here. 

The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head 
Forever instead. 



MOTHER AND POET. 147 

What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain! 

What art is she good at, but hurting her breast 
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? 

Ah, boys, how you hurt ! you were strong as you pressed, 
And / proud, by that test. 

What art's for a woman? To hold on her knees 

Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her throat 

Cling, strangle a little ! to sew by degrees 
And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat! 
To dream and to dote. 

To teach them ... It stings there. / made them indeed 
Speak plain the word " country." / taught them no doubt 

That a country's a thing men should die for at need. 
/ prated of liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant turned out. 

And when their eyes flashed . . . O my beautiful eyes! . . . 

I exulted ! nay, let them go forth at the wheels 
Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise, 

When one sits quite alone ! Then one weeps, then one 
kneels ! 

God ! how the house feels ! 

At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled 
With my kisses, of camp-life and glory, and how 

They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled, 
In return would fan off every fly from my brow 
With their green laurel-bough. 

Then was triumph at Turin. '' Ancona was free ! " 
And some one came out of the cheers in the street 

With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. 
— My Guido was dead ! — I fell down at his feet, 
While they cheered in the street. 



148 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

\ bore it : friends soothed me : my grief looked sublime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained 

To be leaned on and walked with, recalling the time 

When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained 
To the height he had gained. 

And letters still came — shorter, sadder, more strong. 
Writ now but in one hand. " I was not to faint. 

One loved me for two . . . would be with me ere long: 
And * Viva Italia ' he died for, our saint, 
Who forbids our complaint." 

My Nannie would add "he was safe, and aware 
Of a presence that turned off the balls . . . was impressed 

It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear. 
And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed, 
To live on for the rest." 

On which, without pause up the telegraph-line 

Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta: — Sliot. 

Tell his mother. Ah, ah — "his," "their" mother: not "mine." 
No voice says " viy mother " again to me. What ! 
You think Guido forgot? 



'ts' 



Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven. 
They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? 

I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven 
Through that Love and Sorrow which reconciled so 
The Above and Below. 

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark 
To the face of Thy mother! consider, I pray, 

How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, 

Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, 
And no last word to say ! 



MOTHER AND POET. 



149 



Both boys dead ! but that's out of nature. We all 

Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 

'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall. 

And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done 
If we have not a son? 

Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta's taken, what then ? 

When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? 

When your guns of Cavalli with final retort 
Have cut the game short — 

When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, 

When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, 
and red. 
When you have your country from mountain to sea. 
When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, 
(And I have my Dead), 

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, 
And burn your lights faintly! — My country is there, 

Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow. 
My Italy's there — with my brave civic Pair, 
To disfranchise despair. 

Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength. 
And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn. 

But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length 
Into wail such as this ! — and we sit on forlorn 
When the man-child is born. 

Dead ! — one of them shot by the sea in the east. 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea ! 

Both ! both my boys ! — If in keeping the feast 
You want a great song for your Italy free, 

Let none look at me! 

21 



THE LAST LEAF. 

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

I SAW him once before, 
As he passed by the door, 

And again 
The pavement stones resound. 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets. 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan, 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 

" They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 
On the lips that he has pressed 
In their bloom ; 



THE LAST LEAF. 

And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 
On the tomb. 

My grandmama has said — 
Poor old lady ! she is dead 

Long ago — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff, 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here : 
But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 

Are so queer! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring — 
Let them smile, as I do now. 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 



151 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM 
GHENT TO AIX. 

BY ROBERT BROWNING. 

1 SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris and he: 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; 

" Good speed ! " cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, 

" Speed ! " echoed the wall to us galloping through. 

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace — 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

'Twas a moonset at starting; but while we drew near 

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; 

At Boom a great yellow star came out to see ; 

At Diiffeld 't was morning as plain as could be ; 

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime — 

So Joris broke silence with " Yet there is time ! " 

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun. 
And against him the cattle stood black every one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past; 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS. 153 

With resolute shoulders, each butting away 

The haze, as some bkiff river headland its spray ; 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ; 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. 

By Hasselt Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay spur ! 

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her; 

We'll remember at Aix " — for one heard the quick wheeze 

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees. 

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank. 

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh; 

'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 

And "Gallop" gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!. 

"How they'll greet us!" — and all in a moment his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer — 



154 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 



Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or 

good, 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flocking round, 
As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground ; 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good news from 
Ghent. 





LOVE AMONG THE RUINS. 

BY ROBERT BROWNING. 

Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles 

Miles and miles 
On the solitary pastures where our sheep 

Half asleep 
Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stay or stop 

As they crop, 



Was the site once of a city great and gay, 

(So they say) 
Of our country's very capital, its prince 



Ages since 



Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding for 
Peace or war. 



156 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Now the country does not even boast a tree, 

As you see, 
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills 

From the hills 
Intersect and give a name to (else they run 

Into one) 

Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires 

Up like fires 
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall 

Bounding all. 
Made of marble, men might march on, nor be prest. 

Twelve abreast. 



And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass 

Never was ! 
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads 

And embeds 
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone. 

Stock or stone — 

Where a multitude of men breathed joy or woe 

Long ago; 
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame 

Struck them tame ; 
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold 

Bought and sold. 

Now the single little turret that remains 

On the plains, 
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd 

Overscored, 
While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks 

Through the chinks, 



LOVE AMONG THE RUINS. 157 

Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time 

Sprang sublime, 
And a burning ring all round the chariots traced 

As they raced, 
And the monarch and his minions and his dames 

Viewed the games. 

And I know, while thus the quiet-colored eve 

Smiles to leave 
To their folding, all our many-tinkHng fleece 

In such peace. 
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray 

Melt away — 

That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair 

Waits me there 
In the turret, whence the charioteers caught soul 

For the goal, 
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb, 

Till I come. 

But he looked upon the city, every side. 

Far and wide. 
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades. 

Colonnades, 
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts — and then. 

All the men! 

When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, 

Either hand 
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace 

Of my face. 
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech 

Each on each. 



158 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

In one year they sent a million fighters forth 

South and north, 
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high 

As the sky, 
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force — 

Gold, of course. 

O heart! O blood that freezes, blood that burns! 

Earth's returns 
For whole centuries of folly, noise, and sin ! 

Shut them in. 
With their triumphs and their glories, and the rest. 

Love is best. 




kd^^^ 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

BY SAMUEL FERGUSON. 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged! 'tis at a white 

heat now — 
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased ; though, on the 

forge's brow, 
The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound ; 
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking 

round ; 
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare — 
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass 

there. 

The windlass strains the tackle-chains — the black mould 

heaves below ; 
And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every 

throe. 
It rises, roars, rends all outright — O Vulcan, what a glow! 
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the high sun shines 

not so ! 
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fier}^ fearful 

show ! 
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid 

row 
Of smiths — that stand, an ardent band, like men before the 

foe! 
As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing mon- 
ster slow 



i6o 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 




Sinks on the anvil — all about, the faces fiery grow : 

" Hurrah ! " they shout, " leap out, leap out ! " bang, bang ! 
the sledges go ; 

Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low ; 

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow ; 

The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rattling cinders 
strew 

The ground around ; at every bound the sweltering fount- 
ains flow ; 

And, thick and loud, the swinking crowd at every stroke 
pant " Ho ! " 

Leap out, leap out, my masters ! leap out, and lay on load ! 

Let's forge a goodly anchor — a bower thick and broad; 

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode ; 

And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road — 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. i6l 

The low reef roaring on her lea; the roll of ocean poured 
From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the 

board ; 
The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; the boats stove at 

the chains ; 
But courage still, brave mariners — the bower yet remains ! 
And not an inch to flinch he deigns — save when ye pitch 

sky-high ; 
Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing — 

here am I ! " 

Swing in your strokes in order! let foot and hand keep 

time ; 
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's 

chime. 
But while ye swing your sledges, sing ; and let the burden 

be, 
The anchor is the anvil-king, and royal craftsmen we! 
Strike in, strike in ! — the sparks begin to dull their rustling 

red; 
Our hammers ring with sharper din — our work will soon 

be sped ; 
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array 
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of 

clay; 
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen 

here 
For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave-away, and the sighing 

seamen's cheer — 
When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love 

and home ; 
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean- 
foam. 
In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last; 
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. 



l62 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

O trusted and trustworthy guard ! if thou hadst life like 

me, 
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep 

green sea! 
O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as 

thou ? — 
The hoary monsters' palaces ! — Methinks what joy 'twere 

now 
To go plumb-plunging down, amid the assembly of the 

whales, 
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their 

scourging tails ! 
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, 
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory 

horn ; 
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; 
And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to 

scorn ; 
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian 

isles 
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles — 
Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; 
Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far, astonished shoals 
Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, haply, in a cove 
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love. 
To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands, 
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. 

O broad-armed fisher of the deep ! whose sports can equal 
thine ? 

The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable- 
line; 

And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, 

Through sable sea and breaker white the giant game to 
play. 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 163 

But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave : 

A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. 

O lodger in the sea-king's halls ! couldst thou but under- 
stand 

Whose be the white bones by thy side — or who that drip- 
ping band, 

Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee 
bend, 

With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient 
friend — 

Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps 
round thee, 

Thine iron side would swell with pride — thou 'dst leap 
within the sea! 

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand 
To shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland — 
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard 

grave 
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave ! 
Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, 
Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among! 




ODE TO HAPPINESS. 

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

Spirit that rarely comest now, 

And only to contrast my gloom, 

Like rainbow-feathered birds that bloom 
A moment on some autumn bough 
That, with the spurn of their farewell. 
Sheds its last leaves, — thou once didst dwell 

With me year-long, and make intense 
To boyhood's wisely vacant days 
Their fleet but all-sufficing grace 

Of trustful inexperience, 

While soul could still transfigure sense. 
And thrill, as with love's first caress. 
At life's mere unexpectedness. 

Days when my blood would leap and run 
As full of sunshine as a breeze, 
Or spray tossed up by summer seas. 

That doubts if it be sea or sun ! 
Days that flew swiftly like the band 

That played in Grecian games at strife, 
And passed from eager hand to hand 

The onward-dancing torch of life ! 

Wing-footed ! thou abid'st with him 
Who asks it not; but he who hath 
Watched o'er the waves thy waning path, 



ODE TO HAPPINESS. 

Shall nevermore behold returning 

Thy high-heaped canvas shoreward yearning! 

Thou first reveal'st to us thy face 

Turned o'er the shoulder's parting grace, 

A moment glimpsed, then seen no more, — 
Thou whose swift footsteps we can trace 

Away from every mortal door. 



165 




Nymph of the unreturning feet, 

How may I win thee back? But no, 

I do thee wrong to call thee so ; 

'Tis I am changed, not thou art fleet : 

The man thy presence feels again. 

Not in the blood, but in the brain, 
23 



1 66 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Spirit, that lov'st the upper air 

Serene and passionless and rare, 
Such as on mountain heights we find, 
And wide-viewed uplands of the mind ; 

Or such as scorns to coil and sing 

Round any but the eagle's wing 

Of souls that with long upward beat 
Have won an undisturbed retreat 

Where, poised like winged victories, 

They mirror in relentless eyes 

The life broad-basking 'neath their feet, — 

Man ever with his Now at strife. 

Pained with first gasps of earthly air, 
Then praying Death the last to spare, 

Still fearful of the ampler life. 

Not unto them dost thou consent 
Who, passionless, can lead at ease 

A life of unalloyed content, 

A life like that of land-locked seas, 

That feel no elemental gush 

Of tidal forces, no fierce rush 

Of storm deep-grasping, scarcely spent 
'Twixt continent and continent. 

Such quiet souls have never known 
Thy truer inspiration, thou 
Who lov'st to feel upon thy brow 

Spray from the plunging vessel thrown 
Grazing the tusked lee shore, the cliff 

That o'er the abrupt gorge holds its breath, 
Where the frail hair-breadth of an if 

Is all that sunders life and death : 

These, too, are cared-for, and round these 

Bends her mild crook thy sister Peace ; 
These in unvexed dependence lie. 
Each 'neath his strip of household sky ; 



ODE TO HAPPINESS. 167 

O'er them clouds wander, and the blue 
Hangs motionless the whole day through; 

Stars rise for them, and moons grow large 
And lessen in such tranquil wise 
As joys and sorrows do that rise 

Within their nature's sheltered marge; 
Their hours into each other flit 

Like the leaf-shadows of the vine 
And fig-tree under which they sit, 

And their still lives to heaven incline 
With an unconscious habitude, 

Unhistoried as smokes that rise 
From happy hearths and sight elude 

In kindred blue of morning skies. 

Wayward! when once we feel thy lack, 
'Tis worse than vain to woo thee back! 

Yet there is one who seems to be 
Thine elder sister, in whose eyes 
A faint far northern light will rise 

Sometimes, and bring a dream of thee; 
She is not that for which youth hoped, 

But she hath blessings all her own. 
Thoughts pure as Hhes newly oped. 

And faith to sorrow given alone; 
Almost I deem that it is thou 
Come back with graver matron brow. 

With deepened eyes and bated breath, 

Like one that somewhere hath met Death. 
But ''No," she answers, "I am she 
Whom the gods love, TranquilHty. 

That other whom you seek forlorn 

Half earthly was; but I am born 
Of the immortals, and our race 
Wear still some sadness on our face: 



l68 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

He wins me late, but keeps me long, 
Who, dowered with every gift of passion. 
In that fierce flame can forge and fashion 

Of sin and self the anchor strong; 
Can thence compel the driving force 
Of daily life's mechanic course, 
Nor less the nobler energies 
Of needful toil and culture wise ; 
Whose soul is worth the tempter's lure, 
Who can renounce and yet endure. 
To him I come, not lightly wooed, 
But won by silent fortitude." 




DRIFTING. 

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

My soul to-day 

Is far away, 
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 

My winged boat, 

A bird afloat, 
Swims round the purple peaks remote 

Round purple peaks 

It sails, and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks. 

Where high rocks throw, 

Through deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 

Far, vague, and dim, 

The mountains swim ; 
While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 

With outstretched hands. 

The gray smoke stands 
O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 

Here Ischia smiles 
O'er liquid miles ; 
And yonder, bluest of the isles, 



I/O 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Calm Capri waits, 
Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not, if 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 

Under the walls 

Where swells and falls 
The Bay's deep breast at intervals, 

At peace I He, 

Blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild. 

Is Heaven's own child, 
With Earth and Ocean reconciled; 

The airs I feel 

Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 

Over the rail 

My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail; 

A joy intense. 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 
My spirit lies 
Where summer sings and never dies; 



DRIFTING. 171 

O'erveiled with vines, 
She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 

The cliffs amid. 
Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; 

Or down the walls, 

With tipsy calls. 
Laugh on the rocks like water-falls. 

The fisher's child. 

With tresses wild. 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 

With glowing lips 

Sings as she skips. 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 

Where Traffic blows, 
From lands of sun to lands of snows; 

This happier one. 

Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 

O happy ship. 

To rise and dip. 
With the blue crystal at your lip! 

O happy crew. 

My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew! 

No more, no more 
The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar! 



1/2 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

With dreamful eyes 
My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise ! 




TOMMY'S DEAD. 

BY SYDNEY DOBELL. 

You may give over plough, boys, 
You may take the gear to the stead ; 
All the sweat o' your brow, boys. 
Will never get beer and bread. 
The seed 's waste, I know, boys. 
There 's not a blade will grow, boys, 
'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys. 
And Tommy 's dead. 

Send the colt to fair, boys. 

He 's going blind, as I said, 

My old eyes can't bear, boys. 

To see him in the shed ; 

The cow 's dry and spare, boys. 

She's neither here nor there, boys, 

I doubt she's badly bred; 

Stop the mill to-morn, boys, 

There '11 be no more corn, boys, 

Neither white nor red ; 

There's no sign of grass, boys. 

You may sell the goat and the ass, boys. 

The land's not what it was, boys. 

And the beasts must be fed : 

You may turn Peg away, boys. 

You may pay off old Ned, 

We've had a dull day, boys, 

And Tommy 's dead. 
24 



174 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Move my chair on the floor, boys, 

Let me turn my head : 

She's standing there in the door, boys, 

Your sister Winifred ! 

Take her away from me, boys, 

Your sister Winifred ! 

Move me round in my place, boys, 

Let me turn my head, 

Take her away from me, boys, 

As she lay on her death-bed, 

The bones of her thin face, boys, 

As she lay on her death-bed ! 

I don't know how it be, boys, 

When all 's done and said. 

But I see her looking at me, boys, 

Wherever I turn my head ; 

Out of the big oak-tree, boys. 

Out of the garden-bed, 

And the lily as pale as she, boys. 

And the rose that used to be red. 

There 's something not right, boys, 

But I think it 's not in my head, 

I 've kept my precious sight, boys — 

The Lord be hallowed ! 

Outside and in 

The ground is cold to my tread, 

The hills are wizen and thin. 

The sky is shriveled and shred ; 

The hedges down by the loan 

I can count them bone by bone, 

The leaves are open and spread, 

But I see the teeth of the land, 

And hands like a dead man's hand, 

And the eyes of a dead man's head. 



TOMMY'S DEAD. 1 75 

There's nothing but cinders and sand, 
The rat and the mouse have fed, 
And the summer 's empty and cold ; 
Over valley and wold 
Wherever I turn my head 
There's a mildew and a mould, 
The sun's going out overhead, 

And I 'm very old, 

And Tommy 's dead. 

What am I staying for, boys? 
You 're all born and bred ; 
'Tis fifty years and more, boys. 
Since wife and I were wed. 
And she's gone before, boys, 
And Tommy 's dead. 

She was always sweet, boys, 

Upon his curly head, 

She knew she 'd never see 't, boys. 

And she stole off to bed; 

I've been sitting up alone, boys, 

For he'd come home, he said. 

But it's time I was gone, boys, 

For Tommy 's dead. 

Put the shutters up, boys. 

Bring out the beer and bread, 

Make haste and sup, boys, 

For my eyes are heavy as lead; 

There 's something wrong i' the cup, boys, 

There's something ill wi' the bread, 

I don't care to sup, boys, 

And Tommy's dead. 



1^6 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

I 'm not right, I doubt, boys, 
I 've such a sleepy head ; 
I shall never more be stout, boys, 
You may carry me to bed. 
What are you about, boys, 
The prayers are all said. 
The fire 's raked out, boys, 
And Tommy 's dead ? 

The stairs are too steep, boys, 
You may carry me to the head ; 
The night's dark and deep, boys, 
Your mother 's long in bed ; 
'Tis time to go to sleep, boys, 
And Tommy 's dead. 

I 'm not used to kiss, boys, 

You may shake my hand instead. 

All things go amiss, boys. 

You may lay me where she is, boys, 

And I '11 rest my old head : 

'Tis a poor world, this, boys. 

And Tommy 's dead. 




A NICE CORRESPONDENT. 



BY FREDERICK LOCKER. 



The glow and the glory are plighted 

To darkness, for evening is come, 
The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, 

The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. 
I 'm alone at my casement, for Pappy 

Is summoned to dinner to Kew : 
I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy - 

I'm thinking of you. 



178 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

I wish you were here. Were I duller 

Than dull, you 'd be dearer than dear ; 
I am dressed in your favorite color — 

Dear Fred, how I wish you were here ! 
I am wearing my lazuli necklace, 

The necklace you fastened askew ! 
Was there ever so rude or so reckless 

A darling as you ? 

I want you to come and pass sentence 

On two or three books with a plot ; 
Of course you know " Janet's Repentance " ? 

I 'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, 
The story of Edgar and Lucy, 

How thrilling, romantic, and true ; 
The Master (his bride was a goosey !) 

Reminds me of you. 

To-day, in my ride, I 've been crowning 

The beacon; its magic still lures. 
For up there you discoursed about Browning, 

That stupid old Browning of yours. 
His vogue and his verve are alarming ; 

I 'm anxious to give him his due, 
But, Fred, he 's not nearly so charming 

A poet as you. 

I heard how you shot at the Beeches, 

I saw how you rode Chanticleer, 
I have read the report of your speeches, 

And echoed the echoing cheer. 
There 's a whisper of hearts you are breaking, 

I envy their owners, I do ! 
Small marvel that Fortune is making 

Her idol of you. 



A NICE CORRESPONDENT. 

Alas for the world, and its dearly 

Bought triumph, and fugitive bliss ! 
Sometimes I half wish I were merely 

A plain or a penniless miss : 
But, perhaps, one is best with a measure 

Of pelf, and I 'm not sorry, too. 
That I 'm pretty, because it 's a pleasure, 

My dearest, to you. 

Your whim is for frolic and fashion. 

Your taste is for letters and art. 
This rhyme is the commonplace passion 

That glows in a fond woman's heart. 
Lay it by in a dainty deposit 

For relics, we all have a few ! 
Love, some day they '11 print it, because it 

Was written to you. 



179 




SUMMER. 

BY JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. 

Around this lovely valley rise 
The purple hills of Paradise. 

O, softly on yon banks of haze 
Her rosy face the summer lays! 

Becalmed along the azure sky 
The argosies of cloudland lie, 

Whose shores, with many a shining rift, 
Far-off their pearl-white peaks uplift. 

Through all the long midsummer day 
The meadow sides are sweet with hay. 

I seek the coolest sheltered seat. 

Just where the field and forest meet, — 

Where grow the pine trees tall and bland, 
The ancient oaks austere and grand, 

And fringy roots and pebbles fret 
The ripples of the rivulet. 

I watch the mowers as they go 

Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row. 



SUMMER. l8i 

With even stroke their scythes they swing, 
In tune their merry whetstones ring. 

Behind, the nimble youngsters run, 
And toss the thick swaths in the sun. 

The cattle graze; while warm and still 
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, 

And bright, where summer breezes break, 
The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 

The butterfly and humble-bee 

Come to the pleasant woods with me ; 

Quickly before me runs the quail, 
Her chickens skulk behind the rail ; 

High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, 
And the woodpecker pecks and flits. 

Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, 
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, 

The swarming insects drone and hum. 
The partridge beats his throbbing drum, 

The squirrel leaps among the boughs, 
And chatters in his leafy house. 

The oriole flashes by; and, look! 
Into the mirror of the brook. 

Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, 

Two tiny feathers fall and float. 

25 



1 82 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

As silently, as tenderly, 

The down of peace descends on me. 

O, this is peace ! I have no need 
Of friend to talk, of book to read : 

A dear Companion here abides. 
Close to my thrilling heart he hides 

The holy silence is his voice : 
I lie and listen, and rejoice. 





THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLN- 
SHIRE (1571). 

BY JEAN INGELOW. 

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 
The ringers rang by two, by three ; 

'' Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 

" Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! 

Play all your changes, all your swells, 
Play uppe * The Brides of Enderby.' '• 



Men say it was a stolen tyde — 
The Lord that sent it. He knows all ; 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall: 



1 84 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

And there was naught of strange, beside 
The flights of mews and peewits pied 
By milHons crouched on the old sea-wall. 

I sat and spun within the doore, 

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; 
The level sun, like ruddy ore. 

Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 
And dark against day's golden death 
She moved where Lindis wandereth, 
My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heard her song. 
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth. 
From the meads where mehck groweth 
Faintly came her milking song — 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling-, 
"For the dews will soone be falhng ; 
Leave your meadow-grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow; 
Quit your cowslips, cowshps yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, 
From the clovers lift your head ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 
Jetty, to the milking-shed." 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 185 

If it be long, ay, long ago, 

When I beginne to think howe long, 

Affaine I hear the Lindis flow. 

Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong; 

And all the aire, it seemeth mee. 

Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 

That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 
And not a shadowe mote be seene. 

Save where full fyve good miles away 

The steeple towered from out the greene ; 

And lo! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Saturday at even-tide. 

The swannerds where their sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath. 

The shepherde lads I heard afarre. 
And my Sonne's wife, Ehzabeth ; 

Till floating o'er the grassy sea 

Came downe that kyndly message free. 

The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe into the sky. 
And all along where Lindis flows 

To where the goodly vessels lie. 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 

They sayde, "And why should this thing be? 

What danger lowers by land or sea? 

They ring the tune of Enderby! 

"For evil news from Mablethorpe, 
Of pyrate galleys warping downe, 

For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe. 

They have not spared to wake the towne ; 



1 86 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby ' ? " 

I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 

Came riding down with might and main ; 
He raised a shout as he drew on. 

Till all the welkin rang again : 
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 
(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

"The old sea-wall (he cryed) is downe, 
The rising tide comes on apace, 

And boats adrift in yonder towne 
Go sailing uppe the market-place." 

He shook as one that looks on death : 

" God save you, mother ! " straight he sayth ; 

" Where is my wife, Elizabeth ? " 

" Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away. 

With her two bairns I marked her long ; 
And ere yon bells beganne to play, 

Afar I heard her milking-song." 
He looked across the grassy lea. 
To right, to left, " Ho, Enderby ! " 
They rang " The Brides of Enderby ! " 

With that he cried and beat his breast, 
For, lo ! along the river's bed 

A mighty eygre reared his crest. 
And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 

It swept with thunderous noises loud, 

Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 

Or like a demon in a shroud. 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 187 

And rearing Lindis, backward pressed, 
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, 

Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 

Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout ; 

Then beaten foam flew round about ; 

Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, 
The heart had hardly time to beat, 

Before a shallow seething wave 
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: 

The feet had hardly time to flee 

Before it brake against the knee, 

And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sate that night : 
The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 

I marked the lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red and high — 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awesome bells they were to mee, 

That in the dark rang " Enderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 

" O come in life, or come in death ! 

O lost ! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; 
The waters laid thee at his doore. 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear, 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The hfted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 



That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 

That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; 
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and mee: 
But each will mourn his own (she sayth), 
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

1 shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 
''Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, 
Ere the early dews be falling; 
I shall never hear her song, 
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth; 
From the meads where melick groweth, 
When the water, winding down. 
Onward floweth to the town. 



I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver ; 
Stand beside the sobbing river, 
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 
To the sandy, lonesome shore; 
1 shall never hear her calling, 
** Leave your meadow-grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow; 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE' COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 189 

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot ; 

Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow ; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From 3^our clovers lift the head ; 
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, 
Jetty, to the milking-shed ! " 
26 




HE WHO DIED AT AZAN. 

BY EDWIN ARNOLD. 

He who died at Azan sends 
This to comfort all his friends: 

Faithful friends! It Hes, I know, 
Pale and white and cold as snow : 
And ye say, " Abdullah 's dead ! " 
Weeping at the feet and head. 
I can see your falling tears, 
I can hear your sighs and prayers; 
Yet I smile and whisper this : 
I am not the thing you kiss. 
Cease your tears, and let it lie ; 
It was mine — it is not I. 

Sweet friends ! what the women lave 

For its last bed of the grave. 

Is a hut which I am quitting, 

Is a garment no more fitting. 

Is a cage from which, at last. 

Like a hawk my soul hath passed ; 

Love the inmate, not the room. 

The wearer, not the garb ; the plume 

Of the falcon, not the bars 

That kept him from the splendid stars! 



HE WHO DIED AT AZAN. 191 

Loving friends ! be wise, and dry 

Straightway every weeping eye. 

What ye lift upon the bier 

Is not worth a wistful tear. 

'Tis an empty sea-shell, one 

Out of which the pearl has gone. 

The shell is broken, it lies there ; 

The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. 

'Tis an earthen jar whose lid 

Allah sealed, the while it hid 

That treasure of his treasury, 

A mind that loved hin : let it lie ! 

Let the shard be earth's once more, 

Since the gold shines in his store! 

Allah glorious! Allah good! 
Now Thy world is understood ; 
Now the long, long wonder ends ! 
Yet ye weep, my erring friends, 
While the man whom ye call dead, 
In unspoken bliss instead, 
Lives and loves you ; lost, 'tis true, 
By such light as shines for you ; 
But, in the hght ye cannot see. 
Of unfulfilled felicity. 
In enlarging paradise 
Lives a life that never dies. 

Farewell, friends ! yet not farewell — 
Where I am ye too shall dwell. 
I am gone before your face, 
A moment's time, a little space. 
When ye come where I have stept. 
Ye will wonder why ye wept ; 



192 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

Ye will know, by wise love taught, 
That here is all and there is naught. 
Weep awhile, if ye are fain, 
Sunshine still must follow rain, 
Only not at death; for death. 
Now I know, is that first breath 
Which our souls draw when we enter 
Life which is of all life centre. 

Be ye certain, all seems love. 
Viewed from Allah's throne above! 
Be ye stout of heart and come 
Bravely onward to your home ! 
La Allah ilia AllaJi ! yea I 
Thou love divine ! Thou love alway ! 

He that died at Azan gave 

This to those who made his grave. 




AUX ITALIENS. 

BY ROBERT BULWER, LORD LYTTON. 

At Paris it was, at the opera there; 

And she looked like a queen in a book that night, 
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair. 

And the brooch on her breast so bright. 

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote. 

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; 

And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, 
The souls in purgatory. 



194 



FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow ; 

And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, 
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, 

'■'■ Non ti scordar di me?'' 

The Emperor there, in his box of state, 
Looked grave ; as if he had just then seen 

The red fiag wave from the city gate, 
Where his eagles in bronze had been. 

The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye : 

You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again. 

For one moment, under the old blue sky. 
To the old glad life in Spain, 

Well, there in our front-row box we sat. 

Together, my bride betrothed and I ; 
My gaze was fixed on my opera hat. 

And hers on the stage hard by. 

And both were silent, and both were sad ; 

Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, 
With that regal, indolent air she had. 

So confident of her charm ! 

I have not a doubt she was thinking then 
Of her former lord, good soul that he was, 

Who died the richest and roundest of men, 
The Marquis of Carabas. 

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, 
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass ; 

I wish him well, for the jointure given 
To my lady of Carabas. 



AUX ITALTENS. I95 

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, 

As I had not been thinking of aught for years; 

Till over my eyes there began to move 
Something that felt like tears. 

I thought of the dress that she wore last time, 
When we stood, 'neath the cypress trees together, 

In that lost land, in that soft clime. 
In the crimson evening weather; 

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); 

And her warm white neck in its golden chain; 
And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot. 

And falling loose again; 

And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast; 

(Oh the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) 
And the one bird singing alone to his nest; 

And the one star over the tower. 

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, 

And the letter that brought me back my ring; 

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, 
Such a very httle thing ! 

For I thought of her grave below the hill, 
Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over; 

And I thought, "Were she only living still. 
How I could forgive her and love her ! " 

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, 
And of how, after all, old things are best. 

That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower 
Which she used to wear in her breast. 



196 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, 
It made me creep, and it made me cold ! 

Like the scent that steals from the crumbhng sheet 
Where a mummy is half unrolled. 

And I turned, and looked: she was sitting there, 
In a dim box over the stage ; and drest 

In that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair, 
And that jasmine in her breast ! 

I was here, and she was there ; 

And the glittering horse-shoe curved between: 
From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair 

And her sumptuous, scornful mien, 

To my early love, with her eyes downcast, 
And over her primrose face the shade, 

(In short, from the future back to the past) 
There was but a step to be made. 

To my early love from my future bride 

One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, 

I traversed the passage; and down at her side 
I was sitting, a moment more. 

My thinking of her, or the music's strain, 
Or something which never will be exprest, 

Had brought her back from the grave again. 
With the jasmine in her breast. 

She is not dead, and she is not wed! 

But she loves me now, and she loved me then! 
And the very first word that her sweet lips said. 

My heart grew youthful again. 



AUX ITALIENS. 



197 



The Marchioness there, of Carabas, 

She is wealth)^, and young, and handsome still ; 
And but for her .... well, we'll let that pass ; 

She may marry whomever she will. 

But I will marry my own first love. 

With her primrose face, for old things are best; 

And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above 
The brooch in my lady's breast. 

The world is filled with folly and sin, 

And love must cling where it can, I say : 

For beauty is easy enough to win ; 
But one is n't loved every day. 

And I think, in the lives of most women and men, 

There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, 

If only the dead could find out when 
To come back and be forgiven. 

But oh the smell of that jasmine flower ! 

And oh that music! and oh the way 
That voice rang out from the donjon tower, 

Non ti scordar di me, 
Non ti scordar di me/ 
27 



DORIS. 

BY ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY. 

I SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden : 

Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers ; 

I sat and wooed her through sunhght wheeling, 
And shadows stealing, for hours and hours. 

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses 
Wild summer roses of rare perfume, 

The while I sued her, kept hushed, and hearkened 
Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. 

She touched my shoulder with fearful finger: 
She said, " We linger ; we must not stay ; 

My flock 's in danger, my sheep will wander : 
Behold them yonder — how far they stray!" 

I answered bolder, " Nay, let me hear you, 
And still be near you, and still adore ; 

No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling ; 
Ah ! stay, my darling, a moment more." 

She whispered, sighing : " There will be sorrow 

Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ; 
My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, 

I shall be scolded, and sent away." 



DORIS. 199 

Said I, replying: "If they do miss you, 

They ought to kiss you when you get home; 

And well rewarded by friend and neighbor 
Should be the labor from which you come." 

"They might remember," she answered meekly, 
''That lambs are weakly and sheep are wild; 

But if they love me, 'tis none so fervent; 
I am a servant, and not a child." 

Then each hot ember glowed quick within me. 
And love did win me to swift reply: 

"Ah! do but prove me, and none shall bhnd you, 
Nor fray, nor find you, until I die." 

She blushed and started, and stood awaiting, 

As if debating in dreams divine; 
But I did brave them — I told her plainly 

She doubted vainly; she must be mine. 

So we twin-hearted, from all the valley 
Did rouse and rally the nibbling ewes, 

And homeward drave them, we two together. 
Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. 

That simple duty fresh grace did lend her — 

My Doris tender, my Doris true: 
That I, her warder, did always bless her, 

And often press her to take her due. 

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling — 

With love exceUing, and undefiled ; 
And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent, 

No more a servant, nor yet a child. 



THE OLD POLITICIAN. 

'by ROBERT BUCHANAN. 

Now that Tom Dunstan 's cold, 

Our shop is duller; 
Scarce a story is told, 
And our chat has lost the old 

Red republican color. 
Though he was sickly and thin. 

He gladdened us with his face ; 
How, warming at rich man's sin, 
With bang of the fist, and chin 

Thrust out, he argued the case ! 
He prophesied folk should be free, 
And the money-bags be bled. 
" She 's coming, she 's coming ! " said he ; 
" Courage, boys ! wait and see ! 

Freedom 's ahead ! " 

All day we sat in the heat, 

Like spiders spinning. 
Stitching full fine and fleet, 
While the old Jew on his seat 

Sat greasily grinning. 
And there Tom said his say, 

And prophesied Tyranny's death. 
And the tallow burnt all day, 
And we stitched and stitched away 
In the thick smoke of our breath, 



THE OLD POLITICIAN. 20I 

Wearily, wearily, 

With hearts as heavy as lead; 
But, ''Patience, she's coming!" said he; 
"Courage, boys! wait and see! 

Freedom 's ahead ! " 



And at night, when we took here 

The pause allowed to us, • 
The paper came with the beer. 
And Tom read, sharp and clear, 

The news out loud to us; 
And then, in his witty way. 

He threw the jest about, — 
The cutting things he'd say 
Of the wealthy and gay! 

How he turned them inside out! 
And it made our breath more free 

To hearken to what he said. 
"She's coming, she's coming!" says he; 
"Courage, boys! wait and see! 
Freedom's ahead!" 

But grim Jack Hart, with a sneer, 

Would mutter, "Master, 
If Freedom means to appear, 
I think she might step here 

A little faster!" 
Then it was fine to see Tom flame, 

And argue and prove and preach. 
Till Jack was silent for shame, 
Or a fit of coughing came 

O' sudden to spoil Tom's speech. 
Ah! Tom had the eyes to see 
When Tyranny should be sped ; 



202 FIFTY PERFECT POEMS. 

" She 's coming, she 's coming ! " said he ; 
"Courage, boys! wait and see! 
Freedom 's ahead ! " 

But Tom was little and weak, 

The hard hours shook him ; 
HoUower grew his cheek, 
And when he began to speak 

The coughing took him. 
Erelong the cheery sound 

Of his chat among us ceased, 
And we made a purse all round, 

That he might not starve, at least; 
His pain was sorry to see. 

Yet there, on his poor sick-bed, 
"She's coming, in spite of me! 
Courage, and wait ! " cried he, 

" Freedom 's ahead ! " 

A little before he died. 

To see his passion ! 
" Bring me a paper ! " he cried, 
And then to study it tried 

In his old sharp fashion; 
And with eyeballs glittering 
V His look on me he bent. 

And said that savage thing 

Of the lords of the Parliament. 
Then, darkening — smiHng on me, 

"What matter if one be dead? 
She 's coming, at least ! " said he ; 
"Courage, boys! wait and see! 

Freedom 's ahead ! " 

Ay, now Tom Dunstan 's cold, 
The shop feels duller; 



THE OLD POLITICIAN. 203 

Scarce a story is told, 
Our talk has lost the old 

Red republican color. 
But we see a figure gray, 

And we hear a voice of death, 
And the tallow burns all day. 
And we stitch and stitch away 

In the thick smoke of our breath; 
Ay, here in the dark sit we. 
While wearily, wearily. 

We hear him call from the dead, — 
" She 's coming, she 's coming ! " said he ; 

" Freedom 's ahead ! " 

How long, O Lord, how long 

Doth thy handmaid linger, — 
She who shall right the wrong. 
Make the oppressed strong? — 

Sweet morrow, bring her! 
Hasten her over the sea, 

O Lord, ere hope be fled ; 
Bring her to men and to me! 
O slave, pray still on thy knee, 

" Freedom 's ahead ! " 



THE END. 



/^ 



«!!^"°^ CONGRESS 





013 978 195 8 



